


Matters of Consternation

by Crescent_Moon_Demon



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Abuse, Angst, M/M, Manipulation, Rape, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crescent_Moon_Demon/pseuds/Crescent_Moon_Demon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Torture in war was common... but this was beyond mere enemy torment. Dark fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 14, 2011; recently removed from FF.net.  
> It started as a fun idea, watching Tracks strapped across the speakers in season 2, episode "Auto-Bop" and quickly developed into a horrific journey for one of my favourite 'bots.

**Chapter 1: I hate this Club**

He always seemed to get himself into these tight spots.  
  
Tracks shifted against his bonds, attempting to break them or at least find a weakness in the metal so he could slip out of his make-shift cuffs. But there was nothing to be found, and aside from the violent shaking of his panels against the giant speaker, he wouldn't be moving anytime soon. Groaning softly, the corvette turned down the input of his audio receptors. It did not lessen the terrible pain shooting through his chassis as the music continued to pound through every seam and joint, but at least he wouldn't have to listen to the stupid melody anymore.  
  
He needed to remain as focused as possible so he could escape and stop Starscream and Soundwave.  
  
...or at least hope that Blaster could come to his rescue soon...

 

* * *

  
"Soundwave! Is the hypnosis still in effect?"  
  
The communications officer internally cringed at the loud shriek, refusing to turn his helm to Starscream. Any sort of attention given to the SIC would only prompt him to screech further, and Soundwave did not wish to invoke such punishment on himself. "Affirmative," he replied, "Organics under Decepticon control."  
  
"Then just what are you doing now?," Starscream hissed suspiciously. The jet watched the blue mech tape away at the human's miniscule keys, adjusting switches and knobs on the soundboard.  
  
"Action: increasing frequency output. Goal: Maximize proficiency of organic cerebral command."  
  
"That's completely unnecessary! The humans are simple creatures, there is no need for anybot to waste any further effort on these fleshbags," the SIC vented. "Now, I am in command of this mission, and I order you to stop with your foolish tampering! I refuse to be held accountable for any errors your meddling creates. Go be useful and check on the prisoner."  
  
Soundwave turned away from the soundboard, visor flaring brightly at Starscream's turned back-struts. He could feel anger crackling along his circuitry net, and had to remove his servos from the controls before he accidentally broke something with his rage. If it wasn't detrimental to their mission, and hence forth, the entire war, the communications officer would have loved nothing more than to put a blast right through the arrogant jet's spark. There was one thing the tapedeck couldn't stand for... and it was 'bots' degrading his work out of simple vanity.  
  
"Order: acknowledged," the blue mech replied. Words could not express how glad Soundwave was that Starscream had willingly offered him an escape from the other's presence. Reaching up, the communications officer pressed on the release button along his shoulder plating, ejecting two cassettes. "Rumble, Frenzy," Soundwave intoned, "Mission: maintain surveillance on hypnosis modulation."  
  
"Yeah, whatever you say Boss," Rumble said, looking about the control room. Frenzy beside him, sneered at Starscream, before heading to the soundboard.  
  
"Even good ol' 'Screamer's here too, huh?," the red and black cassetticon taunted.  
  
"Silence, you over-sized turborat," the air commander hissed.  
  
Soundwave ignored all three mechs, heading for the door. His two scions turned at the action, red visors dimmed in confusion. "Where you heading, Boss?," Rumble asked.  
  
"Soundwave has his own duties to attend to," Starscream cut in, before the tapedeck could even answer. "Now get to yours!"  
  
Rumble grimaced at the jet's screeching, hopping onto the closest available seat. "I got it already, Starscream. Don't get you get your diodes in a clog," the blue mech grumbled. Seeing the jet begin to bristle at the insult, Soundwave wisely left the control deck. He did not need to worry about his cassetticons. Starscream would not harm them with the mission's success in stake, and if Rumble and Frenzy were foolish enough to rile the SIC up, then they could suffer his shrill yelling.  
  
The doors swished close behind the communications officer just as Starscream began another of his high-pitched tirades. Silently, Soundwave walked down to the club's main floor, wading through the throng of gyrating humans. None of them screamed or ran in terror at the Decepticon's appearance; in fact, they did not even appear to notice that there was an evil, fifty-foot alien robot walking among them. It was with bitter-sweet pride did Soundwave observe this.  
  
Altering the humans' mind and controlling them to do their bidding was not exactly a challenge to the telepath. The organics had such simple cognitive functions, that any mech with half a processor could easily manipulate their cerebrums without any difficultly. Knowing that he had easily subdued all the dancers in the club was not information with which Soundwave would place much pride in. But... capturing an Autobot was.  
  
Rounding the corner, the communications officer turned into a darker alcove just beneath the control deck, where another of their large speakers had been set up. It was on this one that they had chained the Autobot Tracks to, until they later rejoined Megatron and could use the corvette as collateral. Tracks, the blue mech was surprised to see, had all but gone slack in his bonds. The vain mech had his optics offlined and, no doubt, his audio receptors turned down to block out the hard club beat. If it weren't for the music that shook his frame and the subtle grimace of his faceplates at a particularly loud drumline or guitar rift, then it would appear as if Tracks was entirely inanimate; simply a gaudy piece of decoration over the mesh.  
  
Soundwave wasn't sure why, but he refrained from making his presence known to the prisoner, content to merely stand there, observing their captive. In the growing silence -that, apart from the music still blaring from the speakers and the mouths of the clubbers, obviously- the tapedeck was almost startled to hear a groan slip past the Autobot's lip components. As he went to shake it off, deducing that he was making too much out of such a simple, lucrative sound, a set of strobe lights rotated above. Their light slipped into the alcove and for a couple astroseconds, flared across Tracks' paintjob; highlighting the the fine painted chassis and well-greased joints. It also brought attention to the glistening trail slowly making its way down the inside of the corvette's thigh.  
  
One blink of the eye later, and Soundwave had crossed the distance between himself and the Autobot, face pressing closer to the prisoner, to catch a glimpse of the mysterious fluid. It was with some disappointment that he leaned back again, having confirmed that the viscous liquid was oil, possibly forced from a shallow cut on the other mech's skin because of the continuing bass. But then again, what had he expected really?  
  
The communications officer's frowned beneath his battle mask, already knowing the answer in his processor.  
  
Slowly, he looked up, only to find that Tracks had onlined his optics and was glaring at the Decepticon through a wince. "Soundwave!," the corvette growled, tugging uselessly on his chains once more. "You despicable scrap-heap! The others will be along soon, and then your nefarious plots will be foiled again."  
  
Soundwave was almost tempted to smirk at the foolish display of bravado. "Opinion: unsupported," he replied. "Inquiry: How many know you are here? Theory: None are coming to save you. No comms have been detected on my sensors since your capture. Reasoning: You shall be in Megatron's servos before your friends can arrive. ...If you have any..."  
  
Tracks opened his mouth automatically, but as his processor caught up with what the tapedeck had said, it closed again; optics shifting off to the side. Anything to keep from looking at the Decepticon and confessing his own belief in Soundwave's words. One could easily see the defeat on his faceplates though, and Soundwave didn't even need to be a telepath to know that those fears were rooted deeper in the Autobot's spark.  
  
"They'll stop you," Tracks mumbled, almost weakly. Soundwave canted his helm to the side some, surprised. He had not expected any further exclamations from the corvette, and he would be loathe to admit that he almost felt giddy at the faint, opposing effort. But amused he was, and he idly wondered what other surprises Tracks held in store.  
  
After a klik of continuous silence, Tracks brought his optics forward once more and felt his circuits crackle at the frighteningly intense gaze the Decepticon was giving him. There was no sign of emotion really -the visor and battle mask effectively obscured such things from view- nor was Soundwave making it a point to vocalize his thoughts. But his visor gleamed brighter in the relative darkness of the club, looking particularly sinister in the faint glow of pulsing strobe lights.  
  
"W-what are you doing?," Tracks croaked, yanking again on his bonds as Soundwave moved even closer. His panic was complete though when the other mech's servos rested on his thighs, touch much too light and sure to be simply innocent. "N-no! Get away!"  
  
Soundwave couldn't help it. He genuinely laughed as the Autobot writhed desperately against the chains, attempting to kick out and free himself -or at least force his assailant away. But of course, Tracks was trussed up tight, and would not be escaping any time soon. He was literally under the communications officer's mercy, and the corvette knew it too. He also knew that Soundwave didn't even understand the concept of mercy and was struggling hard in his chains for that very reason; praying -pleading- with Primus to let the metal weaken, or the chains to loosen just enough so he could slip his servos free. His hope only diminished the further the tapedeck laughed, the cold, metallic sound piercing his spark with each dreadful syllable.  
  
"S-stop...," Tracks hiccuped, tugging for the umpteenth time on his bonds. His chassis rose a couple millimeter's off the speaker, before he fell back against the machinery. "S-stop it, you, y-you brute!"  
  
Soundwave actually paused in his studying, servos pressed tightly to the Autobot's from where they had just been beginning to map the other's frame. Stunned, but more so amused, the Decepticon looked up again at Tracks, finding his lip components twisted into a smirk behind his battle mask. Such an odd insult to toss at the mech molesting you... but, Soundwave supposed, it was probably the best the corvette could do given the situation. It was pleasant to here, anyways. That lovely, refined vocalizer tripping over words as panic set in... the communications officer wondered how it would sound screaming to the rafters above, and he decided he just had to find out this night.  
  
Tracks, bound as he was, spread-eagle, would be quick to dominate. The Decepticon wasted only a klik more trailing his servos across the other's bucking and trembling chassis, before sliding them down Tracks' thighs again; bringing one servo up to cup the Autobot's pelvic plating. "Order: open," Soundwave said, pressing on the codpiece lightly to inform the prisoner of his target. The corvette whimpered, intakes hitching as his flustered system's began to work themselves into a frenzy.  
  
"Repeat: open now!," the communications officer growled, quickly losing patience. "Before I rip it off."  
  
Tracks stared at the other mech in horror, before he crumpled in the chains; denta biting his lip components hard as he retracted his codpiece. Soundwave moved his hand so he could get a glimpse of the exposed interface equipment, systems rumbling as he noticed that the valve's aperture was almost closed tightly -evidence of a rarely used, and sometime virginal, valve. The Decepticon was vaguely shocked. Tracks was a handsome mech, even he could acknowledge that; the tapedeck would have thought that some of the other Autobot's would be welded to the corvette's side. Or at the very least, 'facing the winged mech into stasis. But Soundwave found he couldn't complain either about Tracks' lack of partners. It meant that there was more for him to claim in this instant, and the communications officer could not restrain the swell of sadistic pride that rose in him at the thought.  
  
Focusing on the task at hand, Soundwave slid his servo back onto the Autobot's pelvic plating, index finger slipping into the waiting valve. Tracks hiccuped at the intrusion, shifting against his bonds. There was no real motivation put towards his actions; he had already admitted defeat the moment he had exposed himself. After all, who could possibly get to him in time before Soundwave had his way? No one, Tracks knew, and he loathed to waste energy crying and begging for someone to come swooping in to save him. Better to hope that the Decepticon was swift, and would hurry along afterwards...  
  
"Command: Look at me."  
  
At the heated demand, the corvette slowly onlined his optics, immediately looking into the visor of Soundwave. Disgust and shame warred within Tracks as he noticed the fairly smug look gleaming in the red glass; repulsion winning out in the end as he felt the tapedeck's finger wriggle within him.  
  
"Keep looking," Soundwave ordered, quickly jabbing a second finger inside Tracks. The Autobot gasped at the second intrusion, harsher than the first had ever been. Automatically, his systems attempted to soothe the ache growing in his valve; lubricant oozing from the walls to try and ease the motion of those invading digits. The communications officer seemed to take the wetness to be a positive thing, because he was adding a third, and then his fourth finger, before too long.  
  
Tracks only gasped one more time, before he returned to biting his lip components, refusing to utter a single sound for the Decepticon, even despite the pain of being stretched so mercilessly. Soundwave did not mind. It was enjoyable, watching the corvette gnaw away at his lip components, faceplates twisting with pain every time he wriggled his fingers. Speaking of which... it was just as lovely to gaze upon his digits as he pulled them out of Tracks' valve, before plunging them deeply back inside again. He almost had his whole fist inside the Autobot, and surprisingly his valve walls did not tear. It was erotic, knowing this fact, and Soundwave idly wondered just how much the corvette could take before he reached his breaking point. He, the tapedeck decided, would have to test that out someday...  
  
For now though, Soundwave simply wanted Tracks to scream for him; to moan and cry as he brought him to overload. With a single, deft twist of his servo, the communications officer had the Autobot releasing his lip components, and a klik after, he had wrung a moan from the corvette.  
  
"N-nooooo, oooh!," Tracks moaned again, bucking against the other's servo. His action, instead of taking him away from Soundwave and his invasive touches, forced the Decepticon's digits against his valve walls further; hard, rotund ends scraping along hidden sensors and making a streak of pleasure zing across his circuits. "P-primus!"  
  
Yes, that's exactly what he wanted to hear! The tapedeck used his other servo to grasp the Autobot's waist firmly, digging his fingers a little deep. He brushed again on Tracks' sensors, the corvette shuddering as pleasure wracked his systems a second time. Targeting the sensitive cluster, Soundwave started in on thrusting his servo; plunging his fingers back into Tracks' repeatedly, hitting his sensors dead-on.  
  
Tracks screamed again at the assault, limbs pushing against his bonds once more, but this time, they were attempting to get closer to the Decepticon instead of away. "P-please!," he keened, trying to remain focused despite those fingers attempting to do the opposite. It had been so long, the corvette noted bitterly, that anyone had touched him in such a way, let alone himself. The aggressive, hungry actions of Soundwave made him burn within, though it was mostly from lust and not the painful blunt force ramming into his lubricated passage.  
  
Quickly, heat was compressing tighter and tighter in his pistons; steam puffing out from transformation seams as his engine roared toward completion. And Soundwave- the communications officer was moving his fingers faster, keeping pace with Tracks' rapidly deteriorating self-control, twisting and scissoring his digits wide inside of the slippery valve; drawing further moans from the Autobot as his touch continued stimulating frazzled sensors. "S-stop!," Tracks cried, still begging to be left alone through his gasps and screams of pleasure, "P-pleeeee- eaaaaaah! Ooh, oh Primus... p-please... s-don't, d-don't!"  
  
The corvette pulled against the chains tightly, inadvertently forcing Soundwave's fingers deeper inside of him, having them ram into a set of sensors not yet touched during this whole affair. The resulting flare of ecstasy that brushing those sensors invoked threw Tracks into overload; scream of tortured rapture a notch louder than the pounding club music. Systems stumbled into a sort of lag as they attempted to maintain function while Tracks fell silent; self-repairs kicking in and starting to fix the damaged wiring and tubing that had been slightly burnt with the rise of core temperature. As the cloud of confusion continued to fill the Autobot's processor, Soundwave slowly removed his fingers from the abused valve.  
  
A burst of lubricant followed his departure, creating a vacuuming suction sound as he pulled his fingers out. His visor flared brightly at the lovely, pale lubricant generously coating his digits, and had to grip tightly onto his self-control as his gaze fell a few millimeters below, to Tracks' valve. Lubricant was still oozing from the tight passage -valve walls clenching tightly intermittently on air, almost as if they were begging for a spike to grasp- while the rest of the corvette's lubricants dripped down his trembling thighs. Soundwave wanted nothing more than to retract his battle mask and sample those glorious fluids. How beautiful it would be, to hear Tracks' moan and cry, as his glossa thrust deeply into his inviting valve; cables and lubricants surrounding his glossa as he ate out the Autobot.  
  
The mere thought was charging the tapedeck's circuits beyond reason. His own cooling fans had turned on kliks ago, and now whined as heat slithered along his sensory net, spike aching behind its protective plating. Soundwave moved in closer to the dazed Tracks, faceplates leaning toward the waiting valve. One servo was raised, preparing to manually retract his battle mask, when one of the human's squealed in delight, startling the distracted Decepticon. With a low growl, the communications officer turned away from Tracks, gaze flickering among the dancing organics.  
  
He didn't know which of the humans had made the sound, but it matter not now. Soundwave leaned back, servo dropping from his battle mask. He was almost grateful now for the annoying squeal; he was not one to so casually bare himself in the presence of others. His faceplates, especially, were a sight 'bots had rarely ever seen. True, being a telepath had its advantages, but it also left the reader vulnerable to the view of others. Maintaining a neutral expression at all times, was not an easy thing to do, and Soundwave had spent too many vorns relying on his battle mask to be certain he could easily hide his emotions without it. Even if they were just simple creatures, the communications officer did not want his bare faceplates to be seen by their hypnotized eyes.  
  
Tasting Tracks would have to wait until another orn...  
  
Turning his attention back to the Autobot, Soundwave was surprised to see that the corvette had not yet come out of his daze. Dim optics were half-shuttered, and little, fleeting moans were escaping Tracks' lip components. His wings were the only thing avidly moving on his frame; the sensitive appendages fluttered almost desperately against the pounding music still shaking the chassis. They're frantic movement captured the tapedeck's focus, who could only watch the wings as they moved still, almost strangely hypnotized himself. A vague thought drifted across his processor, about what interesting course of action those appendages would take if he were to touch them...

* * *

There was music all around him.  
  
Tracks groaned faintly, trying to move his limbs and loosen the stiffness gathering in his joints. No such luck with the moving bit, and only the rattling of chains reached his sore audio receptors over the horrible din. That's right, the corvette's fogged processor recalled. He was a prisoner; tied up tight like someone's hunted turbofox, and waiting for transfer to the Decepticon base. Just how could he have forgotten?  
  
The answer to that came as swiftly as the first, and the Autobot was pulling against his bonds in simple reflex to the memory file. Soundwave. He had come, for no reason it seemed other than to taunt and terrorize, before deciding he wanted to do more than verbally traumatize his captive. T-the tapedeck... he, he had violated him, Tracks painfully remembered. His fingers had been cold and careless, viciously stabbing into the corvette's unsuspecting valve and forcing him into a violent overload. That's why his processor was so jumbled up. His frame had not been prepared for such an assault, and his deadly plunge into ecstasy had fried numerous circuits and programs in the process.  
  
Ratchet would have himself a pit of a time fixing him up, Tracks thought bitterly.  
  
Thinking about the Decepticon made Tracks wonder just where his tormentor had gone. Slowly he unshuttered his optics, choking fearfully as he noticed the red visor just inches from his faceplates. The communications officer had climbed up onto the speaker's platform sometime during his confusion, and now stood level with the multi-coloured mech. Being this close to Soundwave terrified Tracks, and he quaked in response. His surprise made Soundwave chuckle darkly -again!- as the other mech's servo rose up, gripping tightly at a vibrating wing. The Autobot whimpered at the harsh grab, squirming uncomfortably in the tapedeck's hold. "L-let me go," he pleaded.  
  
Soundwave only ignored him; free servo slipping a digit back into his open valve, while the servo on his wing released just the tiniest bit, beginning to stroke at the thin metal. Tracks quailed under the two different touches, feeling his tired systems chug at the almost pleasurable attention. "S-stop! Please; no more!," the corvette cried, wriggling wildly in his chains for what felt like the billionth time that night.  
  
The Decepticon brushed off his comments, trailing his fingers along Tracks' wing further, smirking at the delirious fluttering they made every time he brushed over a sensor or dipped into a seam along the metal. He had never known a mech to have wings that wasn't a seeker... and though the communications officer could notice miniscule differences between Tracks' wings and those of the flight-models, they were still very similar in their responses. One, digging pressure at the bottom, right along the seam between backstruts and appendage, had the Autobot screaming out in pure bliss; another burst of lubricant erupting from between Soundwave's fingers on his other servo and sliding hotly down the corvette's thighs again.  
  
Soundwave tried not to growl, but his systems were not as easy to control, and they rumbled loudly in lust. He needed to be inside of Tracks now, he thought, or he'd simply be driven mad by those molten, sweet-smelling lubricants overwhelming his sensory net. Motion decided, the Decepticon retracted his codpiece, hissing lowly as his spike practically lunged out; pressurizing to its full length in barely a nanoklik and already wet at the tip with transfluid. He had been affected much more than he had initially thought during his molestation of the Autobot. But no matter...  
  
The communications officer abandoned his current handholds, grasping Tracks under his thighs and pulling the other's aft to him as far as it would go. With one, rasping intake, Soundwave thrust into the well-lubricated passage, sliding all the way to the hilt in one fluid swoop. "Aaaaaa-ah-ah-aaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!," Tracks screamed, optics flashing nearly white at the sudden penetration.  
  
Valve walls clenched hungrily about the thick spike, squeezing so tight and forcing sensor nodes along the ridged length. Oh, Primus, the corvette croaked, processor reeling in shock. How did the Decepticon even fit inside of him? He felt so large, much too big for him to possible take it all, and the aperture of his valve was stretched wide around Soundwave's massive girth. Before Tracks could even contemplate this anomaly further, or begin his retinue of pleading for some sort of clemency, the tapedeck was pulling back out, slamming back inside the Autobot.  
  
Tracks arched against the speaker, pressing back into the mesh, as he screamed to the rafter's above; a wordless, erotic cry of passion. The unmeasurable mass filling him had been almost unpleasant, to the point of being painful, but that one movement on Soundwave's part forced his spike to slide along dozens of sensors nodes. The result was an electrifying rush of ecstasy that zinged and crackled across the corvette's circuits, forcing his cooling fans to roar into maximum output, alarms ringing in his processor as core temperature's sky-rocketed.  
  
It was so good!  
  
The Autobot bucked and writhed against the speaker, pulling taut on his bonds -but it was different this time. Tracks did not fight to merely escape; he hungered to get closer to that pleasure, to grab it and wrap his legs around the chassis thrusting passionately against his own. As if to do so would ensure that this bliss would never end, and he'd be forever overwhelmed by the rush of molten heat and utter rapture. Soundwave, processor boggling from the heady affects the interface were beginning to take on him, thought idly for a moment to free Tracks. His servos were gripping the other mech's aft hard now, no longer paying any attention to how far he pulled those silver hips away from the speaker, unconcerned if he was hurting Tracks or not. The tapedeck was only focused on the rocking of their two frames as Soundwave rammed into that dripping valve; visor flashing as he noticed how desperately Tracks struggled against his bonds, servos subconsciously attempting to reach for the Decepticon.  
  
Tracks had not put up this much of a fight before, when he had been fighting for his freedom.  
  
With every thrust, the Autobot was swinging back into him, driving Soundwave's spike deeper and against sensor nodes not yet touched. The additional stimulation was leaving Tracks gasping and spluttering, fans a fingernails-on-chalkboard level of screeching and chassis burning hotly. And the music -it pounded still, just as loud as ever, the vibrations that would have normally been painful now becoming its own sort of eroticism as it shook and jolted the two mechs from within and without.  
  
He wasn't going to be able to last much longer. Soundwave groaned audibly, frantically thrusting into the clenching valve, on the brink of his overload. And by how tight and how quickly those cables were clamping around his aching spike, it seemed Tracks would meet his own soon enough as well. Primus, it had felt like eternity since he had last interfaced...  
  
Had a valve ever felt this good? This hot, and wet and tight around his thick spike?  
  
Or those screams?  
  
Since when had hearing such desperate, incoherent cries of pleasure ever made him so charged, that he would forgo propriety, even for a few breems, to frag such a delicious aft? And in plain view of others to boot!  
  
Another of said keens tore from Tracks' vocalizer, forcing Soundwave to break his pace and jump into an even more wild one. Clanging drowned out all other noise in his audio receptor, accompanied only by the communications officer's own heavy exhalations and the corvette's frenzied moans. It was a total of five -Soundwave had managed to count them even through the fog of his overheating systems- more thrusts before Tracks let out one final, pitch-breaking wail; cables constricting so tight around his spike, that the tapedeck thought for a worrisome moment that he would be unable to retract it.  
  
But then the gush of steaming lubricants flooding around his spike and trailing out between the gaps, to his pelvic plating below, erased all such things from Soundwave's processor, off-setting the communications officer's own overload.  
  
Tracks whimpered softly as a heavy weight slammed onto his chassis; transfluid burning a projected path up into his valve. The liquid was still coming, swelling and pushing against lax walls now, coating sensor nodes and cables thickly with its almost-sticky consistency. Thought that may have had to do more so with the spike still plugged into his valve, keeping the transfluid bottled up within. Exhausted, the Autobot slumped in his bonds, moaning and hissing every couple astroseconds as the blaring music behind him further rattled excessively sensitized joints and gears.  
  
Oh, _Primus_... just make it all _stop_...  
  
Soundwave slowly cycled air, most of his weight leaning against the corvette as he attempted to stay upright. He did not account for his systems to be so thrown out of whack with his release, and now was subject to spending the next couple kliks waiting for his self-repair modules to begin correcting his motor functions so he might as least move again. As of this moment though, the Decepticon's helm was resting pressed to the glass of Tracks' top windshields, where they had developed a layer of condensation from the shear heat. Gaining some control of his limbs again, Soundwave lightly nuzzled against the glass.  
  
The pane was still warm -the spark beneath must have been so swollen with energy that it was taking a long time to expel, leaving the metal pleasantly heated.  
  
That was another thing that the communications officer would need to add to his list. He wondered what Tracks' spark looked like, engorged and pulsing as lust overwhelmed the Autobot's essence...  
  
Slowly, Soundwave lifted himself up; self-repairs almost entirely complete.  
  
Tracks felt movement and groaned softly as the heavy thickness inside of his valve suddenly left. "Close it," came Soundwave's order. There was hardly any doubt in the corvette's processor what the Decepticon was talking about. Practically relieved, the Autobot did as ordered, holding in the moan as his retracting codpiece locked some of the fluids inside of him.  
  
His silenced moan became a gasp of shock, as he lifted his helm, optics flaring brightly as he noticed that the tapedeck stood just inches before him still. Soundwave held his faceplates terrifyingly close to Tracks' and did not seem as if he would be moving anytime soon. Chassis shaking with slight tremors, the corvette attempted to fold into himself and away from that too-close visor, but the mesh of the speaker allowed him no lee-way.  
  
Soundwave liked this look.  
  
Those flustered, energon-tinged cheekplates just below half-shuttered, timid blue optics; accompanied by plump and moist lip components... The communications officer doubted it was a look many were privy to, and he felt lust slither through his circuits again the longer he gazed upon such an expression.  
  
And he had been the only mech to create it...  
  
 _"SOUNDWAVE!"_  
  
The tapedeck visibly cringed at the shriek, anger flashing across his visor. Tracks caught the look and flinched at the furious gaze, thinking for a moment that it was aimed at himself. Thankfully though, Soundwave did not lash out at the corvette, instead raising a servo to his helm.  
  
"Inquiry: What is the problem?"  
  
Starscream hissed over the comm link. _"What is taking you so long? Checking on the prisoner does not take a stellar cycle! Return to the command booth at once and man your post!"_  
  
Gritting his denta tightly behind his battle mask, Soundwave replied to the shrill demand, "Acknowledged. Return: will be along shortly." Quickly, the communications officer cut the connection; placing a temporary block over the frequency so that Starscream would not be able to reach him again. He had already been disturbed once...  
  
Turning his focus back to the prisoner, Soundwave merely smirked, almost tempted to laugh once more at the blatant fear etched across rouge-coloured faceplates. The rhythm of the music was changing now, slowing down to a more mellow and seductive beat. Soundwave listened with only half an audio as he stepped down from the podium, visor fixed firmly on the bound Autobot. Lubricants and transfluids had already begun to start drying along Tracks' thighs...  
  
 _Well I...I set my sights on you  
(and no one else will do)  
And I, I've got to have my way now, baby  
(and no one else will do)  
And I, I've got to have my way now, baby_  
  
He pulled a rag from subspace, running it languidly along both legs. Tracks, expectantly, trembled further at the touch; vocalizer making little chirps of distress. Apparently he assumed the tapedeck would be making another assault on his person, and truth be told, Soundwave really wanted to do so... But Starscream was waiting for his return, and he did not need the annoying jet interrupting him a second time that night.  
  
Pleased that the corvette looked somewhat more presentable -his processor lagged on the words 'no longer fraggable with interface fluids slicking spread thighs'- Soundwave put away the dirty rag, finally turning his back to the Autobot. He could clearly hear Tracks' relief simpering almost joyfully within his helm; certain that the Decepticon would not be coming back for some time and that friends would save him before then.  
  
Soundwave only smirked cruelly, confident that he, Starscream and their prisoner, Tracks, would be long gone before any of the other Autobots discovered the strangeness of the humans' club.  
  
And he would enjoy himself again, the communications officer knew.  
  
As Soundwave waded back through the humans, heading for the staircase that would take him upstairs to the second story landing, the words of the newest song flowed unfiltered into his processor. Never having been one to care for the organics' primitive harmonies, the tapedeck felt this particular piece almost fitting to the situation.  
  
Smirking still, he saved a recording of the song to use for future playback later.  
  
 _All I know is that to me_  
You look like you're lots of fun  
Open up your lovin' arms  
Watch out, here I come

* * *

As usual, they had gotten away.  
  
Blaster turned his optics to the sky for a moment, away from the cloud of rising dust, almost as if expecting to see Soundwave or Starscream somewhere on the black canvas. But there was no sight of them, and for that, the boombox was thankful. He didn't want to have to deal with those stupid up-starts again this night... though he could easily admit to anybody that he wouldn't mind another go at Soundwave.  
  
It had felt really good being a little quicker to the punch then his Decepticon opposite this time around.  
  
Turning away from the star-strewn sky, the red Autobot focused his attention back on his fellow comrade and human friends. Apparently, the ones named Pop-lock and Rocksteady were complaining about the sickening aerial spins that Tracks had taken while they were sitting inside his interior, and the one pale human looked like he might purge at any moment. Tracks' human affiliate, Raoul, was busy attempting to get his pals to cool down; subconsciously standing up for the corvette if anything remotely mean slipped past the others' lips.  
  
Surprisingly, Tracks himself was not taking any part in this conversation. Instead, the winged mech had his optics glued to the debris of the Decepticon's latest schemes, gaze strangely distant. Taking care not to interrupt the humans now quite loudly arguing among themselves -the pale one had finally purged, almost splashing his friends' shoes with the splash back- Blaster walked up to Tracks, quietly standing next to the corvette.  
  
"You look to be zoning," the boombox started softly.  
  
He almost flinched himself when he saw the very obvious cringe Tracks gave at his words. Slowly, the blue mech turned his helm, a queer expression on the other Autobot's faceplates. "Forgive me Blaster," Tracks said, apologizing for his behaviour, "I hadn't noticed you slip up beside me."  
  
"No worries, brother," Blaster cheerfully replied, resting a servo on the corvette's shoulder wheel. The boombox grew suddenly solemn, keeping his servo where it rested, but now giving the tire a firm squeeze.  
  
"If anyone should be cranking out the apologies, it should be me," the red Autobot continued, softer this time. "I left you hanging there for some time, while Starscream and Soundwave tried rocking you into scrap-metal."  
  
Tracks caught his optics lingering on the scuffed up paintjob along his frame, especially around his wrists and ankles where the chains had been. "Yes, well," the corvette replied quickly, turning his helm away. "With the exception of some loose bolts and short-circuiting audio receptors, I'd have to say that I'm in a fair shape, all things considering."  
  
Tracks turned his optics back to Blaster, a frown marring his features as he gazed at his scratched up chassis again. "Though I'm in a serious need for a repaint and a good wax. I mean, look at the horror they inflicted on my handsome frame!"  
  
Blaster laughed, glad to see some sort of normality back in the corvette. He had been wondering where that narcsisstic attitude had wondered off to. "Glad to know only your pride was bruised, brother. Now, what are we to do with our little friends there? They be starting to bug on each other something fierce. Hashes my harmony."  
  
Tracks looked over a wing at Raoul and his friends almost bemused, who were indeed increasing their arguing. Apparently all the excitement of the night had given them a massive adrenaline rush, and no proper outlet to expel all that pent-up energy. Glad for the excuse to get away from the conversation they had just been having, the blue mech let out a put-upon sigh, turning to the humans fully.  
  
"Are you going to squabble all night, or will you be coming back to base with us?," the corvette asked over their loud words. Raoul immediately shut up, and even Poplock and Rocksteady copied him. Poplock was holding a hand to his unsteady stomach, eyeing the Autobot warily.  
  
"You ain't gonna be trying any more flips and swirls, are you?," he asked, almost anxiously.  
  
Blaster and Tracks both chuckled at the question. "No, just driving. The kind with wheels touching asphalt," the winged mech assured.  
  
"Well, alright then," Poplock agreed. "As long as its free, who can say no to a ride, yea?" Raoul smirked beside his friend, shaking his head.  
  
"Dude, Tracks is more than just a free ride."  
  
"True that!," Blaster cheered. "Now, what are we waiting for my brothers? Let's be jammin' already!"  
  
Tracks copied Raoul's action, smirking wryly at his fellow comrades' behaviour, shaking his helm momentarily before transforming to alt-mode. Poplock and Rocksteady slipped into the open doors, piling into the back seats while Blaster changed into his boombox form, nestling neatly on the corvette's passenger side at the front. The driver's seat was reserved for Raoul; probably the only person that Tracks would willingly allow to sit there.  
  
His ex-car thief friend took his time walking around the hood, one hand trailing subconsciously along the door's trimming as he slipped onto the plush seat. His touch drew a tremor from the corvette, one that honestly shocked and unnerved Raoul.  
  
"Tracks, buddy, you sure you're alright, my mech?," the human asked, resting his hands on the driver's wheel. Tracks closed the open doors himself, bouncing a little bit on his wheels.  
  
"Y-yes. Yes, I'm fine," the Autobot replied, a slight shake in his vocalizer. He paused, giving enough time to clear the tremble, before continuing. "That speaker left my joints all shaken and my circuits a little sensitive. Don't mind me. I'll be good after a proper maintenance."  
  
"Well, maybe I can do some work on you," Raoul offered, as Tracks steered them out of the compound. "Before you head back to your pals, yeah?"  
  
"I will be most grateful for any external repairs you'd be kind enough to give," the corvette agreed. "But I'm afraid that I will have to withhold on the internals. Not to dismiss any of your fine work, Raoul..."  
  
"Naw man," the teenager waved off his words, "No worries. I know you're not trying to discredit me. But sometimes, you just want to leave those sort of things to the 'professionals'."  
  
"The medically licensed, temperamental ones, yes," Tracks replied, mirth apparent in his tone. "Thank you for understanding, Raoul."  
  
"No problem," Raoul grinned, leaning back in his seat comfortably. "You're my main machine, Tracks. I'll always look out for you buddy." He leaned forward again some, to pat the dashboard assuredly.  
  
Tracks' engine revved at the words, as if to express his gratitude at the touching show of concern, before he gunned it; racing down the deserted city streets and to the make-shift base posted further uptown.


	2. Fade Me Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I acquired a music playlist to help inspire my writing. Each chapter has its own unique song- all 80's hits and then up! This chapter: 9-1-1 by Cyndi Lauper

**Chapter 2: Fade Me Out**

* * *

"Hey Tracks! I'd thought I'd find you here."

The corvette turned his helm away from the spray, looking over the stall wall to Blaster, who was just coming into the room. Seeing the dry look the other mech was giving him, the red Autobot was quick to blush; raising his servos in an apologetic manner. "I-i'll just wait 'til your finished then?," Blaster said, before turning on his pede and marching from the room.

"It's alright, Blaster," Tracks called over a wing, reaching up and turning the shower off. There was no point for him to linger any longer, not now after having been tracked down by the boombox.

"Ya sure, brother? I don't mean to be steppin' all over your scene...," Blaster said, helm poking back into the washracks.

"No, I'm finished here," the corvette answered, grabbing a soft cleaning clothe and wiping off the excess moisture. "Was there something you wanted?," he asked the strangely silent communications officer.

"Uh, well, not really...," the red mech bashfully replied, scratching at his cheekplate -a habit he had picked up from watching his human soaps. "I just thought I'd come see how things were hanging. Young blood was wondering where you were..."

He meant Raoul. Tracks couldn't quite figure out why the other Autobot insisted on calling his human friend these odd nicknames. "Was he?," the blue 'bot asked, dropping his used towel into a hamper just under the shelf housing the cleaning solutions.

"Yessiree! Just saying, but I was a little curious myself. You said you'd meet us up later for our jam session -by the way, the cats managed to jive their way to enough payment to get themselves a new blaster. My services, thankfully, won't be necessary anymore," Blaster sighed. "Not that I don't mind kickin' it with Young Blood and his gang. Anyways, what caused the hold up, my brother?"

He should have known this question was coming. "I'm very sorry that I didn't show, even after I had promised that I would repay Raoul for his help," Tracks explained, smiling at the boombox. "But Prowl had me out on patrol, and I was unable to get away in time."

"Ah...," Blaster nodded his helm in understanding. "That explains the long shower."

"Indeed..."

"So," the communications officer chirped, slinging an arm around the corvette's shoulders, "Wanna go catch a bite?"

Tracks was thankful that Blaster was entirely fixed on his faceplates, and did not noticed the violent shudder his wings gave at the other mech's sudden contact. He could smile for all the world, but even the best of his lies could not withstand the uncontrollable motions of his wings. With a subtle shrug, he managed to slide out from under the boombox's arm; putting a small bit of distance between them even as he pretended like nothing was wrong.

"I'm sorry, but I must decline your invite..."

"C'mon, brother, I bet you haven't gotten your ration yet this joor!"

Before Tracks could reply, Blaster was pushing him towards the door, grinning widely as he chattered away like a brighter painted version of Bluestreak. "What's it been about now? A week?," the red mech asked, before continuing on with his drivel, his servos grasping the other's shoulder tires. Tracks tried his hardest not to simply squirm at the unwanted contact. "Well, too long in either case. We haven't been able to see each other much since getting back to Base. It seems every time one of us gets free time, the other is sent out on patrol or is stuck with monitor duty. I think we've only been able to visit Young blood twice, together..."

That wasn't a strange coincidence, the corvette knew. He had been trying his hardest not to run into the boombox.

"Listen, Blaster...," Tracks started, cutting the other Autobot off.

"Yeah, mech?," Blaster beamed, undisturbed by the fact that he had been interrupted before he could finish speaking.

"I'm really tired, and I've already got a ration tucked away into subspace." A lie, but it was not as if the communications officer would be able to tell the difference. "I would just like to go to my room, wax, refuel and then go to recharge."

"So, you ain't coming to the party then?"

Tracks broke free from Blaster's grasp; covering it up by turning to the red mech. "What are you talking about?," he asked, confused but quickly getting irritated.

Blaster shuttered his optics in surprise, thrown by the fact that the corvette didn't know about the party Jazz had planned. "You know... the party!," he answered lamely. "Jazz has been planning it for weeks now- got in strobe lights and giant speakers, kinda like the ones we saw back at Dancitron. Everyone's been chatting it up like crazy in excitement. Optimus has given everyone the night off from duties, and even Prowl has allowed an extra load of high-grade to be present. It's gonna be the biggest smash since M.J! So, you in?

Nothing of the boombox's eager explanation made it past Tracks' audios. As soon as he heard the passing mention of the Decepticon-controlled club, a squeezing, clawing kind of grasp tore through his chassis; surrounding his spark and clenching tight enough to extinguish the fragile orb. Shivers started down his spinal struts, miniscule, while the world before his optics began to flicker between reality and disillusionment.

_Pounding music that pushed at him, strapped tight within bonds..._  
"...Tracks?"

_Red visor glowing viciously in wild shadows. Reaching... reaching for him..._  
"Tracks, brother?"

Tracks choked on an intake, stepping back quickly as the world shifted and he once more found himself in the Ark hallway, with Blaster almost pede-to-pede with him and looking greatly concerned. Torn between a whimper and a growl, the corvette quickly turned away, forcing himself to keep his servos at his sides and not hug his shaking chassis.

"Um, Tracks... a-are you really that exhausted?," Blaster mumbled from behind. "I-i'm sorry for pressing so much when you're needing recharge. But maybe after, you might come join us? It'll be fun, I swear!"

Why did he have to continue pestering him?

"...maybe...," Tracks replied flatly.

_Not._

He needed to get away.

"Well, uh... bye Tracks," Blaster called, watching as the multi-coloured mech started down the hall briskly. With one last anxious glance, the boombox tore his optics away from twitching white wings; heading for the rec room, where Jazz was no doubt waiting for his presence before starting.  


* * *

It came through.

No matter how hard he tried to block it out, shutting down his audios and shuttering his optics, the music- it cut through everything: the door, his firewalls, the darkness. Cut through and reached out, curling around him; grasping him tightly in thick claws, caging him, smothering him, pressing him down...

Oh, Primus.

A shiver, a mumbled plea, anything to get it to stop.

But it continued, undeterred, the vibrations echoing and pulsing in place of actual sound -and that was worse. Now he could feel it, inside and out of himself.

He felt him also...

The other that wasn't supposed to be there; the silent spectre with a bloody gaze.

Servos pressed to his face, pushing and squeezing along the closest metal, as the trembling frame curled further into itself. Whimpers barely heard over the sound of pounding music and cold laughter following crueler servos...  


* * *

He didn't know how he could keep moving.

A peal of laughter had the corvette stiffening at the wings. With half-shuttered optics, Tracks peered through the steam at his comrades. The washracks were packed that morning, as was usual for those just coming out of recharge and getting ready for the day. In a corner, he could easily see Bluestreak and Bumblebee chattering away, even while they scrubbed in the shower. Their amused expressions shoved a hot spike of irrational fear into the multi-coloured mech's spark. He quickly looked away, lest he somehow should draw their attention.

Why... why did he have to be afraid?

"Stop hogging the stall, Tracks!"

Something slammed into Tracks suddenly, making the multi-coloured mech bang into the side tiling of the stall. With a glare, Tracks turned around to his assailant; of course it had to be Sunstreaker. "I'm not hogging it, Sunstreaker. There are plenty of other stalls available- why don't you go and take one of those?"

"No way!," the lamborghini snapped. "This one is the best stall. The spray is just right, and the ammonia is perfect temperature. You and me both know that; it's why everyone likes this one the best! I refuse to shower in one of those other stalls and have my paintjob ruined because of a broken nozzle or an acidic cleanser! Now move... before I move you!"

"Quit being such a sparkling!," Tracks growled back, purposely turning his back on Sunstreaker. "I'll get out when I'm done."

"When you're done? You've been in there for the past cycle already!," Sunstreaker protested. "I swear Tracks, I'm gonna-"

"Woah, mech, chillax," Jazz piped up, slipping in between the two. "Ah'm sorry Sunstreak'r, but Tracks got 'ere first, mech. Ya'll just 'ave t' use anoth'r stall. Ah p'omise it ain't gonna hurt ya."

Grumbling, the warrior let himself be led away by the saboteur, but not before he cast a nasty glare at the corvette. "Honestly, why does he need to shower that long anyways!," Sunstreaker was saying to Jazz. "I've got dirt in places I don't even want to think about, and he's not even got a speck of dust on him! What the slag does he need to clean?"

Quickly, Tracks dunked his head back under the shower's spray, pretending that he hadn't heard a word.  


* * *

"Optimus, sir," Prowl started. "A message from the humans. They say that the supplies we've requested are available for pick-up."

"Already?," the truck asked, lifting his helm from the datapad he was currently reading. The Autobot leader made the rest of his way into the control room, where Prowl and a few other mechs were, completing their shifts for that orn.

"Yes sir," Prowl answered. "May I suggest gathering together a team to go and collect our supplies as soon as available. Two should be enough. They can provide cover for each other should the Decepticons try something, without over-exceeding the number of Autobots needed to act as representatives to the humans."

"Yes, that sounds fair Prowl," Optimus replied. "Now, who is available..."

The truck took the datapad that the SIC suddenly held out for him, scanning over it with his deep blue optics. "I've made a list of mechs currently on base and not on the rosters this orn," Prowl explained. "I've put them in order of those best suited for the jo-"

"Bumblebee and Tracks," Optimus spoke up suddenly. "We'll have those two go." The Autobot leader lifted his head to silence and the attention of all his soldiers present. Confused, the Prime frowned slightly behind his battle mask. "...Is something the matter?"

"Well, no, sir...," Grapple was the first to speak. "But I must say..."

"Tracks? 'N Bumblebee?," Ironhide commented sharply from the back of the control room. "Ahptimus, tha kid Ah can und'rstand, but why in all o' Cyb'rtron ya sendin' th't mirr'r-hog?"

"I must agree, sir," Prowl started slowly, "Your selection is most peculiar."

"And why is that?," Optimus asked, still puzzled. "Tracks is an Autobot, the same as the rest of us. He does his duties quite exceptionally, and he's already worked with the humans prior. If memory serves correct, he has even made friends with one of them. Surely he can handle the supply pick-up easily enough."

"Not to discredit you or anything sir," the Datsun continued to his commander, "But though Tracks may have fair relations with the humans, he's... Well, to put it..."

"He's a slaggin' naris- naciss- slag, Prime, th't mech 'as hes aft so far up hes tailpipe he ain't git a clue o' all tha rest o' us still livin' 'ere wit 'im!," Ironhide cut in sharply. "S'metimes Ah wond'r if th't mech ev'n realizes he's on a team."

"Again, I have to agree with Ironhide...," Prowl added, frowning in distaste at his own statement. "Tracks is very solitary, sir, and he seems to prefer things that way. I do not dispute his loyalty to our cause, but I apologize if I worry that team efficiency might decrease with Tracks stubbornness."

"Well, we've got our fair share of hard-helmed mechs," Optimus said, looking pointedly at Ironhide. His friend grumbled something under his intakes, turning back to his monitor. "In either case, I'm confident that no troubles will come out of Bumblebee and Tracks working together. I dare say, this would be a good way to provoke some more crew interactions, no?"

Prowl took back the datapad that Optimus held out for him, absorbing the truck's words. "You're quite right sir," the SIC answered. "I'll comm both of them at once and inform them of the supply run."

"I wonder where Tracks could be...," Grapple mumbled, turning back to his monitor. "I haven't seen him at all this orn."

"Aw, he's pr'bly just racin' 'round out in tha desert," Ironhide grumbled in his seat beside the crane. "Th't 'bot be out o' base often 'ese days."

"Truly peculiar..."  


* * *

_I'm at my own front door and I can't get in._ _  
I'm dialing up nine one one..._

"Bumblebee..."

_I'm on the brink of trouble again_

_If you could change the time, a little,_

_then everything else would be..._

"Bumblebee!"

_...fine, fine, fine..._

"Yes, Tracks?," the yellow beatle asked, turning down his radio. The corvette beside him spat a cloud of exhaust, inching forwards a few more centimetres. "Is there a problem?"

"I told you to stop blasting that scrap..."

"...but I wasn't," Bumblebee tried to protest.

"... yet you continue to test me. Honestly, whatever do you see in that disgusting 'pop'?," Tracks finished snippily, uncaring for the other mech's words. "Pathetic..."

"I think you're being a little harsh Tracks...," the minibot replied, frowning unseen. "I mean, you have that human friend of yours. Do you insult his music as well?"

The corvette's engine turned over angrily, but the blue mech did not respond. Sighing quietly, Bumblebee shut his radio off. He had been enjoying himself, fiddling with the different stations before settling on something that he could shake his stick to when Tracks had to sour his mood. Really, the other Autobot had been in a terrible mood since...well, the minibot couldn't think of a time that Tracks wasn't in some sort of mood, but that vague intolerance for his comrades seemed to have doubled in the past couple weeks. The corvette was hardly seen about base anymore, and when others did see him, it was usually for short trips to the energon dispenser in the rec room and then longer showers in the washracks.

It had taken nearly two whole cycles before Prowl had even been able to get a hold of Tracks, by which Bumblebee had already been briefed and was waiting patiently for his partner to show up for the supply run.

Now the beatle wished Prowl had just sent him off by himself, like the SIC had mentioned doing when he had been grumbling to himself.

"So...," Bumblebee started. Without some tunes, the silence was engulfing and uncomfortably awkward. "How have things been Tracks? I don't see you often. You still going to see your human friend?"

"Yes," came the short reply.

Quiet fell again, as the two Autobots reached the border of the city. "Well, umm...," the yellow mech tried again, as they turned onto the main street.

"It was very insightful of Optimus to send me on this supply run to show the humans that the Autobots not only have strength, but refinement as well," Tracks spoke up suddenly, cutting off the minibot's sad attempts at conversation.

It took a full klik before Bumblebee could properly respond. His processor was practically rattling from the abrupt shift in personality Tracks had just pulled, that all the beatle could do was follow the corvette's action and transform to bi-pedal mode as they reached the end of the street. "...Not to mention humility," the minibot added snarkily, before he could restrain himself.

For an astrosecond, Bumblebee froze, uncertain if Tracks would lash out at his sarcastic comment. Surprisingly, the corvette only looked at the smaller Autobot, before coolly saying, "Bumblebee, I fear that some of us have much to be humble about."

That was a slap in the faceplates.

"Well," the blue mech sighed melodramatically, heading across the street for the little appliance store tucked between two bigger shops, "I suppose we'll be mobbed by my adoring public."

Bumblebee trailed behind him, rolling his optics at the typical Tracks behaviour. "Yeah... they can hardly resist you, Tracks."

Any further comments that the corvette might have made were silenced before a sound could even escape the winged Autobot's vocalizer. The television in the store's window was declaring the recent news bulletin, which had the passerbys crowding around the glass to hear.

At the mention of raised arms, the beatle turned to his partner only to have his focus drawn elsewhere. "Decepticons!," Bumblebee hissed, watching as two larger mechs ducked out of sight down a nearby alley.

Tracks spun around immediately, wings going stiff with tension. Decepticons... there were Decepticons here! Fear, fear was flooding its way through his energon lines again; thicky, black and icy terror that threatened to swallow his spark whole. Was it Soundwave? Had he finally returned?

_'N-no... no it isn't him'_ , Tracks tried to tell himself through the rising wave of white noise filling his processor. He forced his optics open, made them fix on the fleeing sight of the other two 'bots. The purple, grey and tan paintjobs were nothing like what the communications officer bore.

"Blitzwing and Astrotrain...," the corvette mumbled lowly to himself, weak relief almost evident in his vocalizer. Not waiting to see if Bumblebee had caught that little slip-up, the blue mech rushed forward, peering cautiously into the alleyway.

The trembling fear that had almost possessed him not but astroseconds before was quickly erased, as burning hatred overcame Tracks. "So much for my wax job!," he spat nastily, transforming back to alt-mode and tearing after the fleeing Decepticons.

Bumblebee almost had trouble keeping up with the suddenly irate mech.

"T-tracks!"

Tracks ignored the beatle, pressing harder on the gas, trying to catch up with Blitzwing and Astrotrain. But no matter how fast he went, or how quickly he shot around those corners, the two Decepticon lackeys still remained ahead of him. "I must need an overhaul- I can't catch them!," the corvette declared, zipping around another corner. Bumblebee followed, right on his bumper, tires squealing as he made the turn.

"A dead end!," Bumblebee exclaimed almost jubilantly, as they saw they had backed the two mechs into a corner. Quickly, the minibot transformed to bi-pedal mode. "Very dead."

Something wasn't right...

Tracks slowed to a stop, watching as Blitzwing and Astrotrain continued to back down the alley. Bumblebee was right... the rest of the way was blocked by a wall; it was virtually a dead end. But the Decepticons weren't retaliating to being cornered... they just kept inching backwards, centimetre by centimetre...

The urge to shift into reverse and pull out of there was growing.

But Bumblebee was here; watching, waiting, for Tracks to transform...

The blue mech wrestled with his anxiety, changing out of his alt-mode. Licking his lip components nervously, he stepped forward. Anything to ensure that the minibot didn't see the spark-wrenching terror that was beginning to mold his faceplates. "Please..."

_'Please, don't let him come...'_

"Do not force me to resort to violence."  
 _  
'Don't let him come back!'_

Tracks lunged forward quickly, only to almost trip over his own pedes. The Decepticon he had attempted to grab in his instant of careless endangerment had vanished before he could even get his servos on him. Bumblebee said something behind him, but the corvette didn't catch it. The terror was back, stronger and twice as overpowering as before. His entire systems locked up with sheer horror, barely seeing the garbage truck before him suddenly open its ugly maw and shoot its projectile at the stalling Tracks.

Only when the zapping sting of electricity crackled across his circuits could Tracks even make a sound again.

"G-ge-get...H-help! Aaahhhhh!"

What was happening? Bumblebee stepped back in shock, watching as the garbage truck shot some sort of strange clamp at the immobilized Tracks, electric jolts flaring across the corvette's entire chassis as his systems were overloaded with the input. A pained scream erupted from the blue mech's vocalizer, shaking the minibot from his stupor.

"Tracks!," Bumblebee shouted, torn between jumping forward to help his comrade or turning tail.

Another choked cry of pain came from the corvette as he crumpled to the ground, writhing desperately as raw energy was being shot through his frame still. "...h-help...," came the pitiful whimper. "...p-pleee-ease... h-help m-me..."

That sound...

A sound like that should never come from a mech.

"D-don't worry Tracks!," Bumblebee choked, stumbling over the scary plea the other Autobot had made. His spark whirled sickeningly at the level of unadulterated terror reflected in that desperate cry. "I'm going to get help!"

Quickly, the beatle transformed back to alt-mode, backing out of the alley as fast as his wheels would allow. He was going so fast that he didn't see the truck pull up behind him suddenly, blocking his escape. A ramp dropped, forcing the minibot up into the truck's bay, where he slammed hard into the metal backing. The speed and force of his impact knocked the yellow mech offline.

With systems shutting down, Bumblebee cast one glance at his fallen comrade. _'Tracks... g-gotta help... him...'_  


* * *

They were back at the Ark.

Optimus had valiantly come to their rescue and had handed the human Chumley over to the proper authorities to be dealt with. Bumblebee was happy, truly. Lord Chumley had been a twisted sort of man, hunting each of them down and then containing them in their own, personalized, sick prison. Really, the beatle didn't think he'd get the tar from his own trap out from his wheel wells for weeks...

But that wasn't what was on the minibot's processor right now.

Glancing across the room, Bumblebee wasn't so surprised to see Tracks lingering almost unseen in the corner. The winged mech had his helm bowed lowly, arms crossed over his chassis, though his optics kept flicking upwards every few astroseconds; observing the others almost suspiciously.

Just why was Tracks being so distant?

Bumblebee wasn't likely to forget the terrified cries Tracks had made before both of them were subsequently captured. Even now, the sounds played back in his processor, making his fuel tanks churn. Had the corvette really been that scared? But of what? Surely not because of a simple trap set by a sick human...

The debriefing was coming to a close.

The minibot glanced back at his commander, before quickly turning his attention to the huddled mech. Doing his best to remain unnoticed, Bumblebee inched across the room. He had to abandon his method of stealth though, when he noticed that Tracks was making a quick dash for the door now that Optimus had finished talking. "Tracks? Hey, Tracks!," the yellow mech called, trying to catch up with the rapidly departing corvette.

Tracks barely paused in his stride, glancing over a rigid wing. "...what do you want?," he asked, almost nervously.

"L-listen, uh... Tracks, could you slow down for a minute?," Bumblebee begged, forcing his legs to step a little wider to keep pace with the other. With a scowl, the blue mech acquiesced to the younger one's demand; optics flicking about even as he turned to fully face the beatle.

"What?," he repeated.

"I-i just wanted to make sure you were alright. That Chumley guy had you driving circles for hours; I'm surprised your engine didn't quit and leave you for target practice to those lasers!" If the minibot had thought that this might break the ice a little, it only seemed to make things worse.

"Excuse me, but I think I'll be goi-"

"Wait, Tracks! I-i really am concerned!," Bumblebee said, sliding into the corvette's path. "I mean... is everything alright? When Chumley attacked us, you... you got really scared there, and I just wanted to make sure that you were oka-"

"I don't see how that's any of your business!," Tracks snapped. His optics were narrowed slits, burning a deep indigo. "If I wanted your worry, I would have said so!"

"B-but Tracks...," the minibot stuttered, overwhelmed by the other mech's sudden vehemency and anger. "Y-you're my friend, and I-i-"

The corvette's optics flared brightly at the half-finished statement. "I am not your friend!," he hissed, forcing Bumblebee to click his vocalizer shut. "I never was, and never will be! So do yourself a favour, Bumblebee: Leave. Me. Alone!" Shoving the beatle to one side, Tracks hurried down the rest of the hallway, disappearing around the corner just as the rest of the Autobots came into sight.

"Hey, lil' Bee!," Blaster greeted cheerfully. "What's hangin'?" The boombox's smile faded a little bit when he saw the additional scuffs on his small comrade, and the frown plastered across the minibot's usually optimistic faceplates. "Something happen, my brother?"

"Just a regular crankshaft...," Bumblebee grumbled vaguely.

Blaster tilted his helm at that, but decided not to comment further. "So, hey... you seen Tracks 'round?," the red mech asked, looking about. "I thought I saw him and you bounce out ahead of the others."

At the mention of the corvette, the minibot's frown deepened. "I wouldn't bother with him, Blaster," Bumblebee replied, turning on his pede. "It's a waste of time..." Without offering further explanation, the beatle headed down the hall, leaving a deeply confused boombox to stand by himself.  


* * *

Why was he doing all this for again?

Tracks looked at himself in the mirror, avoiding his dim optics. He watched himself lift a cleaning rag, running it across dusty wings. There were so many nicks and scratches across his paintjob from that Chumley's sudden assault. Things that would need to be fixed by a proper buff, not a simple coating of polish... Things that he did not have the care to deal with appriopriately at this time.

"Why do you even bother?"

The corvette lowered his helm, following the rag as he dipped it back down into a can of wax. "Because I must," he mumbled. He brought his focus up again, watching his reflection as he rubbed the wax onto his frame.

"That's not an answer," the mech in the glass hissed back. Blue optics narrowed; denta baring sharply. "What has narcissism done for you? Left you chained to a fragging speaker so some two-bit Decepticon thug could shove his filthy fingers inside you!"

"Be quiet...," Tracks replied, turning his helm away from the glass. This argument was growing old. "That was a coincidence. It could have happened to anyone..."

"But it didn't," his reflection snapped back. "They must know."

"No! Th-they...they can't know."

"So what? You wait until they find out? Bumblebee won't keep silent forever! He'll say something, you know he will, unless you take action!"

"...can't," the corvette mumbled weakly. He slid the rag across his front, not paying any mind to the sting that came as wax was pressed into fresh cuts.

"Why not? It's your fault- you were the one who slipped up!"

"No one can know," Tracks repeated, skittering around the question.

The second 'bot slammed his fists against the glass, cracking it. "But he does! Are you going to really pretend that he didn't see us; didn't hear you!"

"It didn't happen," the blue mech countered. "None of it did." Silence followed, where the reflection did nothing but growl lowly in his vocalizer. But suddenly, his shoulders sagged, all the fight leaving him.

"Didn't happen you say... b-but, but I can feel him though," the other mech gasped, pressing against the mirror. Optics shuttered tightly, and lip components curled on the whimper that started to rise. "Inside of me, around me... Like sludge: black, corrosive, tainting... G-get him out; g-get him o-off! G-g-g-g-g-get h-him o-of-!"

"Tracks?"

A knock cut through the darkness, choking the rising scream.

Slowly, Tracks pushed himself off the mirror, glancing over his back fearfully. The lamp on his desk offered little illumination; just enough to make out the contours of the door further along the room. Another rap echoed across the room as the mech just beyond knocked a second time.

"Tracks... you in there?"

Blaster...

It was Blaster.

"Make him go away," the mech in the mirror hissed lowly. "Don't let him see!"

Tracks hushed the reflection, keeping his optics fixed to the door. They both had to be silent, lest the boombox hear him. He couldn't find out, couldn't know what he had become...

"Guess he's not here...," Blaster mumbled softly through the metal. The sigh the red mech gave was audible; so was the shuffling of his pedes. A klik later, the communications officer was finally retreating from the corvette's door. Still, Tracks did not dare to even cycle another intake until the silence continued to stretch on, confirming that no wandering audio receptors lingered outside his room. Wearily, he turned his helm back to the mirror.

The other mech was waiting there for him, optics dim with defeat. "No... they can't know," he agreed through the glass. "No one must know."

Tracks crumpled to his knees, huddling against the frigid glass. His chassis trembled as he folded into himself, shutting his vocalizer down on the sobs that arose.


	3. Danger Zone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song choice: This is where I came in by Bee Gees

**Chapter 3: Danger Zone**

"Lord Megatron, duplicate destroyed. Report: humans heading for the negative. Inquiry: should give chase?"  
  
Soundwave listened patiently as the tyrant laughed maniacally over the commlink. _"Good Soundwave; you have done well,"_ Megatron finally spoke, his gravelly voice tripled in texture because of the connection. _"No, I shall deal with these humans myself. Remain out of sight until my command."_  
"Affirmative," the communications officer replied, just before the commlink clicked sharply, noting the end of the conversation. Mutely, Soundwave lowered his servo back to his side, looking around himself. He was currently huddled in the shadow of some abandoned equipment, behind one of the studio's numerous warehouses. In reality, the structures surrounding him were poor shelter from prying eyes, but the Decepticon knew that he had to remain out of sight. Their mission was all about stealth this time; remaining under the radar of the humans and the Autobots. He would do nothing that could impede upon his leader's goals.  
  
The sound of an engine turning over angrily caught Soundwave's attention though, and he leaned slightly from behind the safety of his lean-to. His visor flared brightly as he saw the tailpipe of a familiar corvette pass by; the car turning into a darkened alley between two large warehouses.  
  
Tracks...  
  
It had been almost a month since he had last seen the Autobot. Their paths had not crossed since. Fortunate for Tracks, Soundwave surmised, judging by the darkness of the corvette's thoughts from here. Such darkness... it screamed across the distance between them, brushing against the tapedeck's telepathic sensors. What a twisted mess Tracks' processor had become. The thought stirred a carnal joy within him.  
  
He had to get closer. He needed to see just how much damage had been done, for study purposes.  
  
Soundwave made to move forward, but stopped. No, what he was doing was foolish. It would blow their cover and go against Megatron's orders. But he hadn't said the communications officer couldn't move around, a voice reminded temptingly. The blue mech mulled it over a klik longer.  
  
He was nothing like the rest of Megatron's soldiers -he could retain his stealth and still pursue this new task. Smirking cruelly under his battle mask, Soundwave slipped out from his cover, padding quietly for the unsuspecting Tracks.

* * *

Why had he even bothered to come here?  
  
Tracks silently pondered this, running imaginary servos across his hood. If he wished to, he could have simply transformed and further studied the scratches on his chassis, but that would mean leaving vehicle mode. The Autobot could not do that. He was safer like this... people didn't bother questioning a car about their feelings, or if they wanted to hang. It had already taken longer than expected to escape from the others. The impromptu explosion had shaken his fellow Autobots some, and they had taken to be suddenly concerned about their comrades in the aftermath. Not that it had been a very big or dangerous explosion, but paintjobs had been scratched and joints were left sore. Enough of a concern for the few select narcissistic, vain mechs.  
  
Tracks shivered unexpectedly, sinking low on his tires.  
  
The smoke had clouded his optics for a moment, bringing in the darkness. Through the deafness of his audios, he could remember those playful beats; the vibrations of the music as it shook him, bound to that giant speaker.  
  
No... no, make the memories go away!  
  
The corvette made a strange sort of hiccup noise in his tanks -the only sign of his whimpering. He silenced them quickly after, rolling further between the two warehouses. He wanted to run away, flee from this darkness, but that cruel monster in his helm could not be so easily chased off, and Tracks could not risk being overtaken by that demon while in the sun. Others would see, would hear... They absolutely could not find out, or it would be the death of him!  
  
...not as if he wasn't dying already...  
  
He just couldn't care anymore. Everything felt heavy upon the Autobot's shoulders. Merely functioning was becoming a burden, one that Tracks still continued to pursue, though he did not understand why he did so. The orns had been passing like remnants of a horrible dream: vague, disorientating, insignificant. Most of the time, he was holed up in his room, tormented by the mech in the glass of his fractured mirror, the one that still raged and cried for justice among the ice beginning to solidify around his spark. Only when was it was necessary- as in the cases where Prowl had him scheduled for duty, or when he was called for battle- did he ever leave the dark confines of his quarters. Even those few moments were terrifying.  
  
He was slipping.  
  
He could feel it. His plating almost always trembled now, and static laced across his vision, distorting all that he saw. It was a struggle just to speak normally; doing his best not to scream out in terror as Soundwave crossed into view, reaching for him.  
  
Oh, _Primus..._  
  
Recalling, recalling it now made those instances stronger.  
  
Tracks shivered again, sinking even lower. He could almost brush his tailpipe against the concrete, he was that low on his tires. "Go away...," he whimpered, attempting to fold into himself in alt-mode. Through the darkness came a cold, mirthless laugh.  
  
Sideview mirrors flicked upwards with a noticeable creak, bringing into sudden focus the mech that loomed just behind the corvette. His scream of fright was muted before it could even process out of his vocalizer. Terror seized him, immobilizing Tracks, which might have been a good thing. Soundwave... Why was Soundwave here?  
  
The darkness seemed to strengthen, encompassing them both; trapping them tight within its own realm. That icy, prickling feeling of fear slithered through the rest of the corvette's systems; his intakes coming to a grating, choking halt as the full reality of the situation settled on him. _'Please... no... g-go away...'_  
  
The Decepticon did nothing. He stood silently behind the Autobot, blocking the only entrance into the alley, his red visor glued to Tracks' frame. His silence and inactivity frightened Tracks further. Why had Soundwave not done something yet? Did he not recognize the multi-coloured mech, even in alt-mode? The notion was too ridiculous of an idea, but his frantic processor latched on to the slim possibility desperately, hoping against hope that was the case. Perhaps if the other 'bot thought that Tracks was an ordinary, human vehicle, he would leave the Autobot alone.  
  
 _'G-go... l-leave. Do not notice me...'_  
  
The light in that red gaze increased, dark laughter slipping past the battle mask. The sound slashed away the rest of Tracks' prayers, leaving him stranded with nothing but his terror before his very own tormentor. "Fact: informed of the futility of your hopes," Soundwave declared cruelly. The Decepticon stepped forward. "Autobot: now at my mercy."  
  
His engine screeched anxiously as Tracks turned about, attempting to back further down the alley. He stopped shortly afterwards though, his bumper just inches from grinding into brick. There was no where for him to flee; no room so he might bring out his wings and take flight. He was trapped; cornered in the darkness, with no hope of any rescue this time. Why? Tracks wanted to cry out. Why him? What had he ever done? He had been innocent, even before this pointless war was started. Why then did he have to suffer like this?  
  
Soundwave came closer, beginning to kneel. Tracks could not bring forth the strength to transform back to bi-pedal mode, knowing that it was useless. He would be pinned long before he could reach into subspace and pull out his blaster. The corvette's engine snorted sickly, his only vocalization at the state he was in.  
  
Such a interesting sound.  
  
Soundwave wanted to laugh again. He had never seen such terror before, so blatantly obvious in every action on Tracks' part, even through the restrictive form of his vehicular mode. It was delicious. Only seeing it before him now, did the communications officer realize how much he had missed this reaction. The missions the Decepticons had started had kept him every so busy, not a single thought outside of making sure Megatron's plans succeeded crossing his processor. The invigorating rush that came now, with Tracks so helpless before him, flooded Soundwave's sensory net.  
  
He approached, slowly at first, until he had the Autobot almost pinned to the back wall, before he lunged forward suddenly, grabbing the corvette just about the undercarriage. The startled car gave a pathetic squeal with its engine, tires spinning uselessly, in a desperate attempt to get away from the Decepticon's grasp. So, Tracks wanted to be silent, hmmm?  
  
Soundwave tightened his hold on Tracks, lifting the corvette's back end up of the floor. Gravel and dust was kicked into the air, gears rumbling as the Autobot pushed himself harder. To this, the tapedeck laughed again. Without his back wheels touching the ground, the car had no hope of fleeing. And Tracks was still adamant to transform. "Fighting is useless," the communications officer noted. He slammed the corvette into the wall, smirking when he heard sensitive components break within. The car's engine spluttered sluggishly, Tracks trying to turn his wheels still. They rotated a couple times, before giving out completely.  
  
The Autobot would not be driving anywhere anytime soon.  
  
Pleased, the Decepticon set Tracks back onto the ground. The car bounced slightly with the motion, but otherwise did not move. The darkness within the multi-coloured mech's processor deepened, intoxicating Soundwave. Such depression... it left almost a sweet taste upon his glossa, nearly tangible to the senses. Lost in the lullaby of those silent, broken cries, the tapedeck ran his servos along the corvette's frame, mapping the curves and bends in the metal.  
  
The Autobot screamed within, begging for clemency.  
  
Only Soundwave heard, not that Tracks knew. If he had, perhaps he would have silenced even his thoughts.  
  
"Fact: shall not escape me this time," Soundwave declared, digging his fingertips into the corvette's headlights. The car rocked uneasily, engine stuttering. Pain echoed in the back of the tapedeck's helm -his telepathic reading from the other mech's processor. The confirmation soothed any of the Decepticon's anger. Truly, it had been unexpected, losing both Tracks and Dancitron. The plan had been going so well, better than most. The humans were all under their control, and things were nearly complete on their end. Had that young upstart Blaster not come barging in, then the Autobot would still be their prisoner and Megatron would have made quick use of his new facilities. Instead, everything had to be set back again; the hunt for energon taking precedence over any other attempts to gain the upper-hand.  
  
Well, until Megatron called for him, Soundwave was determined to enjoy himself.  
  
He wanted to dive deep into that sludge, tear relentlessly into Tracks' processor; open all those welded doors and assess the discord he had caused. Taking the Autobot's body had been simple... but he wanted his mind this time. It would be a victory he would savour for months to come, the communications officer knew.  
  
He started, slowly, testily.  
  
His motions were careful; calculative. The corvette was shivering visibly now in his grasp; silently pleading still not to be touched. Soundwave ignored these cries, doing the opposite of what they begged for. Sometimes, Tracks screamed loud enough in his processor, making note of areas that he prayed the Decepticon would brush past. Those places, the tapdeck made certain to touch; caressing and stroking the metal and rubber until he had the Autobot melting in his servos. The car's engine kept shifting gears so rapidly it jarred the audios, trying to snuff out the roar of his systems as a slow, aching charge began to build within him; forced upon him by cruel servos intent on making him overload. Seeing his victim's stubbornness, Soundwave resolved to increase his efforts.  
  
Cables slithered from the access panel on his arm; their protective covering popped back by a simple thought. They slid like snakes, creeping past Tracks' side doors, dipping below. The corvette's headlights flared brightly, engine squealing in distress as the cables stroked along his undercarriage; slipping through the open spaces between his axles and reaching up into his interior. The invading tentacles circled around pistons and cogs; tangling themselves into sensitive wiring and pressing hungrily against power conductors.  
  
 _'Please!,'_ the silent voice sobbed. _'S-stop!'_  
  
Soundwave grinned wickedly behind his battle mask, visor lit up. He pushed unnoticed into Tracks' tormented processor, drinking down the agony that came flooding back into his own mind, coating his glossa like the finest high-grade. The communications officer leaned heavily over the corvette, lifting the car up some and pressing Tracks to his chestplates. The Autobot was shaking uncontrollably in vehicular mode, frame hot and beads of condensation beginning to slide down the shiny, blue finish. Already he had shoved the other mech this close to overload... any more and Tracks would be sent screaming over the edge. The thought brought a rumble out of Soundwave's systems. Cycling air heavily himself, the Decepticon felt as if his own frame was melting. The heat was so intense, the charge almost unbearable. His spike ached behind his codpiece, demanding to be buried hilt-deep in the Autobot's valve. The only problem was, Tracks still refused to transform and in alt-mode, he offered no outlet for Soundwave to receive some relief. He needed to get the corvette to change...  
  
The telepath pushed deeper, bringing darker memories to the forefront of Tracks' processor. It was beautiful seeing the budding madness he had created; through warped optics, seeing the exotic creature he held pinned beneath him crumpled in a dark corner, crying and rocking in silent misery. Afraid of his comrades, wishing nothing more than to escape them and their watching optics...  
  
 _'Yes,'_ Soundwave purred in sadistic joy. _'Flee from them. Submit to your master.'_  
  
The tortured visions changed quickly within his processor, becoming the recollections of that fateful night. He watched, experienced, through Tracks' optics his own rape; the memory so strong, Soundwave could almost feel himself being touched by the phantom version of the communications officer haunting the corvette's processor. Oh, Primus... The sensation was overwhelming! Soundwave forced his cables deeper, targeting the most sensitive components within the Autobot that he knew of. Tracks tensed in his grasp, as if feeling the assault coming, before a cry tore out of his vocalizer; drowned out by the screams of his engine as the collected thrust of the Decepticon's tentacles against his interior forced Tracks into overload.  
  
Soundwave pressed the trembling corvette closer, almost moaning in need. Quickly, he shook his helm, trying to clear the fog beginning to hinder his motor functions. While Tracks was still distracted, the communications officer retracted his cables, tucking them away as he pressed against a select number of gears; manually forcing the Autobot to transform. Metal retracting and limbs reappearing, Tracks crumpled to the pavement, still panting and choking weakly from the overload. It took nearly a full klik for the corvette to wearily lift his helm, turning frightened, coolant-glazed optics up to the Decepticon.  
  
"N-no...," the multi-coloured mech begged hoarsely. "P-please... l-leave me al-alone..."  
  
Soundwave did not reply, quickly pushing Tracks onto his back, a servo grasping those gorgeous wings. They fluttered pathetically against the harsh grab, their owner moaning weakly in pain. "Beautiful...," the tapedeck growled, pressing closer to the pinned Autobot; codpiece retracting with a hiss and his spike pressurizing into the atmosphere.  
  
At the sound, Tracks whimpered, offlining his optics in terror.  
  
Well, it didn't matter, Soundwave surmised. Soon, he'd have the corvette looking again. The communications officer smirked victoriously behind his battle mask, free servo tracing down the other mech's frame, heading for his codpiece where he would pull it back, shoving his fingers into that waiting, wet va-  
  
 _"Soundwave!"_  
  
The bark halted the Decepticon's actions, making him seethe. _"Soundwave!,"_ Megatron's furious voice called again. _"The humans have run off with the negative! Find them immediately and destroy it! Do you hear me?"_  
  
No! Soundwave wanted to rage. Why did this have to happen, right when he was so close to achieving his goal! The communications officer swallowed back his fury, quickly jabbing at his commlink. "Order: received, Lord Megatron," he replied. "Shall locate the humans."  
  
Soundwave cut the connection, turning his heated gaze back to Tracks. The Autobot was attempting to curl into himself again, optics still offlined to his attacker. To have this delectable banquet spread out before him, and have to abandon it... what a waste. Cursing Starscream's incompetence, the Decepticon rose to his pedes. Tracks optics onlined as the heavy frame removed itself, spluttering weakly as Soundwave started heading for the alley's exit. Hearing the torrent of chaotic thoughts, the telepath turned his helm back to the unmoving Autobot.  
  
"Assumption: incorrect," he declared aloud. "Shall return. Escape: futile."  
  
His final words spoken, Soundwave left to search for the wayward humans.

* * *

He'd been touched by him again...  
  
Servos groped about his frame, cables slithering inside him; defiling him from the very inside out.  
  
He wanted to scream at the cruelty of it all, but his voice -it would not respond! His body, it had grown so weak, overcome by fear and memory. Knowing already the torment those servos could put him through, then having that fact reinstated.  
  
His whole frame shook as he curled into himself, becoming a tight ball of trembling, keening metal. Unable to erase the fact that again he had succumbed to the other's abuse; overloading from that slimy contact. Growling vocalizer in his audio, announcing his beauty.  
  
Disgusting... he felt so disgusting...  
  
What was worse now, was the undeniable truth that had been given to him in passing.  
  
That fleeing was useless; he would never escape.  
  
He had become trapped in this torture.

* * *

"Blaster, please- I just want to go back to my room!" Tracks struggled to free his wrist from the boombox's hold, intakes faltering the longer the other mech touched him. He had just returned from the studio with the others, and after everything that had happened, the last thing he wanted to do was to go to a party.  
  
But Blaster had sprung up out nowhere, cutting off the corvette's retreat. "C'mon, Tracks!," Blaster beamed, oblivious to the other's growing anxiety. "It'll be fun, I promise. 'Sides, you've been like a ghost this past little while. You need to kick it with some of the gang."  
  
"Blaster!," the corvette hissed. He tugged again, but it was useless. He just couldn't escape and the red mech kept pulling him forward, either unaware of how close Tracks was to a breakdown or not caring. The latter was seeming more and more likely...  
  
Music was beginning to pound down the hallways now, the lighting dimming as they neared the rec room; strobe lights painting a slab of the walls in overlaying shades of blue, pink, and yellow. Oh, Primus... The darkness rose up again, making reality flicker out of non-existence. He was there again, strapped, bound, unable to move... "L-let me go!," Tracks all but screamed, thrashing violently. Reality came crashing back, just as the multi-coloured mech managed to tear himself free from the communications officer's grip; tripping over his pedes and slamming into the nearest wall.  
  
"T-tracks? Is everything alright...?"  
  
The white noise that had been filling his helm for that moment faded, sound rushing back into his audios.  
  
Tracks onlined his optics, finding himself pressing against the wall. He turned slowly to the boombox, gaze undoubtedly accusing as he viewed his comrade. "...I said I didn't want to come," he said lowly, ice seeping into his tone. "What makes you think that you can just-"  
  
"'S ev'rythang okay?" Jazz walked out into the hall, visor moving from boombox to corvette. "Woah... what's wit' the tension?," the saboteur asked, noting the distressed look Blaster wore, compared to Tracks' nervous scowl.  
  
The corvette glanced at Jazz, wings hitching up behind him. This, this wasn't what he had wanted!  
  
"I-it's nothing, Jazz," Blaster answered, looking up at Tracks for a second, before dropping his gaze to the floor again. "Tracks is just tired, is all. He doesn't want to co-"  
  
"I never said that," Tracks quickly interrupted. He could see the hard look Jazz was giving him, intensified by his vocal rejection to what the red mech was saying. But he wasn't about to let Blaster sit there and explain that he didn't want to come to this party. It was obvious already that everybody else was attending, and if word got out that he violently resisted coming... then 'bots would get nosy. And he couldn't... he couldn't deal with that!  
  
He had already made one slip-up with Bumblebee; no one else could find out.  
  
But it was so hard. Tracks could feel the coolant attempting to rise, plating clanging just the slightest as a series of chills overcame him. The music... its pounding presence carved Soundwave's touch firmly into his chassis, making it hard to forget, especially after today's events. Why... why did this pit-forsaken party have to be today of all days?  
  
The filth... it just wouldn't go away. Not until he had scrubbed every inch of his frame, and then some.  
  
"I...," the multi-coloured mech started slowly, faced with two perplexed expressions, "Didn't say anything of the sort."  
  
Jazz's visor winked out as he shuttered his optics quickly behind them, the saboteur turning to look at his friend. Blaster was gaping stupidly. The boombox just couldn't seem to respond; it was almost pathetic really, the way he opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, at a loss for words. "Blast'r...?," Jazz prompted, the longer the communications officer was silent.  
  
Blaster finally shook himself out of his stupor. "Y-you sure, Tracks?," he asked, directing all of his attention on the corvette. "C-cause, I mean, I don't want to force you or anything, just-"  
  
"I'm sure," Tracks replied snappily. He quickly grasped his crumbling facade, reigning things back under his control. Helm held high, the vain mech marched past his two comrades and into the swell of music and dancing. He was thankful for the dark and the loud speakers: they muffled the gasp that tore itself from his lip components. The one that he had been unable to choke as he was once again encompassed by that familiar, pounding sound and disjointed, sweeping light.  
  
"You'll have fun, I know you will!," Blaster yelled over the music, coming up behind the corvette. Tracks tried not to flinch at the other's close proximity. "Want something to drink?," the boombox asked, leaning in closer, apparently over Tracks' almost-fit out in the hallway.  
  
Tracks was half-tempted to punch the communications officer away. He hunched his shoulder tires high, wings twitching faintly, as he quickly surveyed the crowd. Aside from the sheen here and there from a mech's glossy frame, the only other bit of illumination to see was that of an energon cube being passed around. The multi-coloured Autobot latched onto its presence immediately, locating its source.  
  
"High-grade," he mumbled, barely loud enough for Blaster to hear. "I would like some high-grade."  
  
"Coming right up!," Blaster chirped, eager to please. Quickly, the red mech disappeared into the throng. Tracks didn't bother to watch him go. Alone again, he could feel his mask of indifference fading. He backed up against the wall quickly, arms hugging his chassis tightly; intakes coming in desperate, stuttering bursts. This party... it would be the ruin of him.  
  
Tracks quickly pressed a servo to his optics, hiding any evidence of tears. He hoped that the shadows and high-grade would be enough to help him through this.

* * *

It didn't take long for everyone to get drunk.  
  
Tracks, leaning against the wall as much as for support as a way to remain unseen, tipped dangerously as he attempted to drain another cube of high-grade. He didn't even remember which number this one was... he'd lost count somewhere about the seventh. All he knew was that he kept grabbing them every time they were near; throwing them back, and drowning everything out in the blissful numbness that over-energization always brought.  
  
He supposed he should have been concerned... but rationality had vanished, just as the clawing servos about his neck cables had. As long as he couldn't think anymore, why should he care what else was happening? The music no longer bothered the corvette, though that might have had more to do with the fact that he couldn't hear it than anything else. Not even the sweeping motion of the strobe lights fazed him. Before his dazed optics, he could almost see how pretty they made everything in this dark room.  
  
A shadow stumbled, slamming into Tracks' side. The sudden contact knocked the rest of the cube out of his servo, making the multi-coloured mech groan sadly as he watched the pink liquid glow on the floor. Pouting, Tracks turned to see just what had hit him. He was met with another face, this one silver.  
  
"H-he -hic- eeeeey...," Huffer slurred, swaying back and forth as he attempted to stand on his own. The minibot eventually gave up such a futile action, leaning fully on Tracks again. His blurry optics were fixed on the taller Autobot, foolish grin spreading his cheekplates. "Y-y...'er p-pweetty, T-tr'ks... n-nev'r notissssssss..."  
  
Clarity hit him suddenly, chasing the haze from his processor. The words... Soundwave had said the same thing. It made Tracks remember. He tensed, as if hit, recalling those nasty words. How many times had he wondered just why the Decepticon had decided to rape him? Was beauty the only factor? And if so, was he only beautiful to the enemy...? "Tell me more," Tracks said, looming over the minibot intimidatingly. "Tell me."  
  
Huffer must have been more inebriated then either could have guessed. The smaller mech didn't seem unnerved by Tracks' obsessive need to know more, instead, grinning more broadly and holding his cube to his hiccupping chestplates. "Y-y'or wiiiin-hic-ssss, t-they s-shiny," the semi elaborated. "J-jusss... w-wanna -hic- t-toc 'e-em..."  
  
"Really now...," the corvette mused. His optics were bright, his study of the minibot definably deranged. Slowly, he placed shaking servos on Huffer's shoulder plating, pawing the metal. "Perhaps you might want to show me?," he proposed in a dark whisper.  
  
The offer seemed too much for the semi. Huffer's optics shuttered in disbelief, before the goofy grin on his faceplates increased. He laughed in that nauseating way of his, leaning more on Tracks. Tracks himself tolerated it, his mind set. He surveyed the crowd quickly, and noticing that all optics were turned elsewhere, he quickly shuffled him and the minibot out of the rec room. Where the brightness of the hallways might have deterred him before, he felt nothing now, fixated on his next course of action. He was practically dragging Huffer with him down the hall in his anxiousness to get somewhere more private.  
  
"Where are your quarters?," Tracks asked the stumbling minibot.  
  
"W-wha...?," Huffer hiccupped.  
  
"Your room," the corvette hissed impatiently. "Where is it?"  
  
"O-ohhhhhhh," the smaller mech giggled. "T-th'sssssss w-way." Huffer attempted to take the lead, weaving the entire expanse of the hallway as he headed forwards. Tracks followed behind at a slower pace, not concerned if the minibot tipped to the side dangerously with every shaky step. He was almost thankful that Huffer's room wasn't that far away.  
  
"J-jusss -hic- h-here," the semi declared, swaying before his door. He tried to punch in his security code, but his short fingers kept slipping and jabbing other keys. The keypad beeped in rejection. "H-huh... t-tha w-weird..."  
  
"What is the password?," Tracks demanded, shoving forward. Huffer shuttered his optics at him blearily, before shaking his helm and fumbling his answer. The corvette merely nodded his helm tersely at the reply, punching in the minibot's combo and watching as the doors finally opened; granting them access to the dark room.  
  
Tracks wasted no more time, pulling the intoxicated Huffer into the room and shutting the door once again. He pushed the minibot onto the berth, clambering into his lap. His optics flared in the darkness, alight with impeding madness. "Show me," he commanded coldly. "Show me how beautiful I am."  
  
Huffer panted nervously, reaching up and touching that beautiful chassis.

* * *

Tracks sat on the edge of the berth, glaring nowhere in particular. His vocalizer was muted, but within he screamed; a hurricane of rage, despair and shame. It hadn't done anything! His moment of inspiration had proven a foul course of action. The corvette turned his helm, looking back at the minibot passed out on the berth. How disgusting... Tracks' upper lip component curled as he looked at Huffer; lubricant and transfluid drying on the mech's pelvic plating.  
  
Even after 'facing with that pathetic, little whiner, all Tracks could feel was Soundwave! The Decepticon's touch was on him, wriggling inside of him. His spike, it stretched his aching valve; his gaze, it pierced into his soul, imprisoning him further.  
  
What did he have to do to escape him?  
  
The corvette wanted to cry... this was insane! Another's touch should not have only increased Soundwave's! It was illogical!  
  
But then again, when had he ever cared for logic?  
  
Tracks shook his helm, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. His processor was all over the place, leaving him lost on a daily basis. He could barely keep the events before him in focus. If he slipped anymore, then there would be no hope whatsoever at escape.  
  
The multi-coloured mech crumpled on himself, servos grabbing his helm as the memories suddenly struck stronger. The walls... it felt as if the very walls were pressing in on him! The corvette struggled to his pedes, intakes choking as he stumbled for the door. He had to get out of this room; away from the base. He needed to feel sand and gravel beneath his tires, the wind rushing past -anything that could trick him into believing he was getting away finally. The Ark was silent as Tracks hurried down its hallways, and for that he would have been grateful, if he had noticed. As it was, the Autobot was too busy panicking, optics shooting from one point to another in a consistent, paranoid fashion; almost like he assumed Soundwave would melt from the orange walls. The exit could not have come into view any sooner.  
  
Tracks practically ran for it, stopping as soon as he was out in the open night air.  
  
Everything that he was running from caught up with the mech again in that moment, and he crumbled to his knees; keening weakly as he pressed his face to the dirt. A litany of garbled pleas and demands to be left alone slipped from his vocalizer, surrounding the corvette like the hum of an angry wasp hive. He didn't know how long it took for him to sit up again, but dust was coated to his cheekplates thickly, sticking there from the coolant that he had shed. Spitting static still- the Cybertronian equivalent of a sob- Tracks forced himself up to his pedes again, weakly circling the Ark. He had intended to find himself a dark, secluded place to hole in, until this bout of misery had passed him again but that was quickly squashed when he rounded the corner and came across the dinobots. They were tossed out about the rocks and trees, recharging deeply.  
  
The sight took almost a full klik to make sense in Tracks' processor.  
  
Of course... the Ark barely had enough room as it was for its soldiers to have a place of their own to sleep... The dinobots, though much loved by their creators Ratchet and Wheeljack, were too volatile to be allowed their own space; which they would no doubt trash either in a violent rage or during one of their more 'playful' banters. For this very reason, the dinobots were told that they would have to sleep outdoors; something that they had accepted eagerly. The mechanical beasts were more in their element when surrounded by the organic foliage.  
  
Waking them now would not be a wise move.  
  
The corvette turned on his pede, but halted, gaze still fixed on the dinobots. They were so large... their frames were much bigger than his, built for brutal strength and almost impenetrable defense. Perhaps the outside size was the same for some of their more discreet components... Tracks leaned closer, licking his lip components nervously. The idea, similar to the one he had earlier with Huffer, was hard to ignore this time. Surely one of these lumbering morons could grant him the relief he sought.  
  
But whom to choose?  
  
Tracks was not an idiot. He had seen enough of the dinobots to grasp the tiny remnants of personality they each carried. Grimlock saw himself as king, and would not take kindly to being roused from his slumber, interface or not. Swoop was beholden to Grimlock and therefore would be too nosy about the corvette's intentions to cooperate. Snarl had always been a loner, and so did not bear even contemplation, and Slag was equally as violent- if not more- than Grimlock. That only left the dumb one, Sludge.  
  
Well, Tracks thought, optics flaring brightly as he studied the thick mech, he supposed there good be worse choices.  
  
Moving quickly, the corvette slipped forward. He tip-toed past the other dinobots, focused only on his target. "Sluuuuudge," he whispered, reaching the dinobot. He set his servos on the recharging mech's thighs, stroking them needfully. "Sludge - _wakey, wakey_."  
  
The brontosaurus snorted, stirring slightly. Tracks pushed harder, crawling up to Sludge's audio, hissing right into it. "Come on you giant buffoon. Wake up!"  
  
Sludge groaned lowly, optics flickering online as the dinobot finally roused. The mech cleared his vocalizer noisily, staring at the corvette by his side. "Shiny car bot... what doing here?," the brontosaurus mumbled sleepily. "Sludge sleeping."  
  
"Not anymore," Tracks replied, optics again lit with that mad sheen. "Come," he gestured to the bigger mech, "I want to show you something."  
  
"Show Sludge thing?," the dinobot yawned. He shifted, starting to rise. Dumb as he might be, Sludge was still as curious as his brothers. The prospect of seeing something new was too good to pass up. Tracks grinned, pulling back, still crooking his finger.  
  
"Yes. I want to show Sludge something. Something very, very important..."  
  
Sludge shook the rest of the sleep from his helm. "What about Sludge brothers?," the brontosaurus asked, glancing at the still sleeping dinobots.  
  
"They don't matter," Tracks hissed, quickly losing patience. "This is a surprise just for Sludge. Now come." The dinobot looked at the corvette for a moment, before he ambled after eagerly. Primus, what a dolt, the multi-coloured Autobot sneered. Well no matter. As long as he got what he wanted, Tracks didn't care how much of an idiot Sludge was. They did not have far to go.  
  
Tracks knew that if he attempted to go too far, Sludge would quickly lose interest and return to his brothers. But the corvette also knew he needed to be a safe distance away from the other dinobots, so that he would not wake them while they were interfacing. He led them past several trees, circling further about the Ark, before he turned on the brontosaurus. Sludge looked at Tracks stupidly as the smaller mech pushed him against the rock wall. "What shiny care do?," the dinobot asked, jaw clenching tightly.  
  
Tracks slowed his motions down, not wishing to push the other mech into reaction. He might not survive if Sludge decided to take a swipe at him. "We've just got to get you lying down again, is all. Can't show you the surprise unless you're lying down," the multi-coloured mech lied, false smile pulling at his lip components.  
  
Sludge allowed himself to be forced down, back sliding against the rock as he sunk to the ground. "You show Sludge thing, right?"  
  
"Of course, darling," Tracks answered. He clambered onto the dinobot's lap once Sludge was spread out on the desert floor, quickly stroking the other's chestplate, fingers seeping past the protective armour and getting at the sensitive wires beneath. Any complaints that Sludge might have made as the corvette climbed on top of him were quickly replaced by his moans at the pleasurable assault. Grinning maniacally, Tracks lifted himself up, pulling his codpiece back. Left over fluids from Huffer trickled down his thighs, not that the Autobot cared. He turned his attention to Sludge's own covering, quickly playing with the metal and finding the manual release.  
  
"W-what... what shiny c-car do?," Sludge repeated, heaving intakes through his bafflement. He squinted, watching as his spike pressurized for the first time ever; rumbling in further confusion. "W-what that?"  
  
Primus... what a thick spike. Tracks felt his processor almost blank at the thickness of the dinobot's spike, a snide voice in his helm commenting on how either Ratchet or Wheeljack had too much time on their hands. Barely sparing the brontosaurus a glance, the corvette shifted, positioning himself above that massive member. "Your spike," he mumbled in explanation. "Such a naive sparkling you are, you probably weren't even aware it was there. But you will learn in time what something like this is used for."  
  
He didn't give the dinobot a moment longer to try and even process what he had said, lifting himself up a little higher before impaling himself on that rigid length. Sludge practically howled as his sensitive spike was encompassed tightly in molten silk; Tracks hissing as he was stretched mercilessly. It felt like his valve was being ripped apart! Sludge was too thick, forcing his frame to take more than he was entirely capable to. But, he would suffer this, the corvette decided, lifting his hips and pushing off of the large spike.  
  
Tracks slammed himself back down onto the Sludge, not even letting himself have a moment to regret his choice. The stretching caused his whole chassis to ache, making lubricants burn as he slid them along raw sensor nodes. That still did not stop him though. The corvette pushed himself to go harder, increasing the speed, until the pain started becoming its own pleasure and he felt nothing but the heat. Sludge thrashed and moaned beneath him, servos flying wildly as the dinobot spiralled towards overload; not knowing what else to do but allow Tracks to ride him. Already spent as he was, it did not take long for Tracks to reach his overload, whimpering as the dinobot also released, his transfluid flooding his valve and spilling out between the tiny spaces from between their conjoined frames.  
  
Groaning at the inexplicable full sensation, Tracks slowly, agonizingly, pushed himself off of Sludge; manually closing his codpiece. The brontosaurus' transfluid was trapped inside of him then, but the corvette at the moment didn't even have the energy to care. The warmth from those expelled fluids left everything tingling within him, in turn, creating a wonderful, blank fuzziness in his processor.  
  
"S-so... good," Sludge murmured blissfully. "Sl-sludge t-tell-"  
  
"N-no!," Tracks yelled, grabbing at the dinobot's shoulders. He leaned into the dimwitted mech's face, growling. "You w-won't tell anyone of this!"  
  
Sludge shuttered his optics; the image of perplexed innocence. Smothering his scowl, the corvette fixed a sickeningly sweet smile onto his lip components, patting the chagrined brontosaurus' cheekplate tenderly. "This is our secret after all. You know about secrets, right Sludge?," he said. "You know that they're very, very important things between two 'bots, yes? Well, you and me have a secret now. A very special one. No one else must know then, understand?"  
  
"Secret?," Sludge chirped tiredly. "Sludge like secret! Sludge keep good secret."  
  
Good," Tracks purred, smile twisting unnaturally. "Sludge better keep this secret." He groaned, pushing himself off the dinobot finally. Not even bothering to offer an explanation to the confused brontosaurus, the corvette stumbled back towards the Ark's entrance.  
  
He met nobody on his way to his room, and once he was safely inside, the multi-coloured mech collapsed onto his berth; processor undisturbed by unwanted memories as he recharged.


	4. Hello

**C.M.D: Titles from here on in were lost... Thankfully enough, I did have a song list for this fic and used one song as inspiration for one chapter, and thus as the title. What song... well, I didn't quite recall (and they're not in proper order on my playlist), so let's hope I remembered them all correctly.**   
**Suggested listening: Hello- Lionel Richie**   
**Story Episode: The key to Vector Sigma Pt 1**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Hello**

He couldn't get him out of his thoughts.

"Soundwave, are you listening to me?!"

The communications officer lifted his helm at the call of his name, his attention spliced between his leader and those flickering, white wings at the edge of his peripheral. "Affirmative, Lord Megatron," he answered quickly, wrestling his focus forwards. Megatron stood by the head of the war table, looking positively slagged off... Soundwave's attention must have been deviating a lot longer than he had anticipated, if the tyrant was this upset with him.

"Oh really now...," Megatron snarled testily. "Then, if you'd be so kind, do inform me of what it is we are currently discussing."

The tapedeck felt for just the briefest moments a touch of fear. He could not recall a word the grey mech had spoken in the last breem, and the inability to supply an answer would lead to a quick and agonizing punishment. Soundwave did not wish for that, nor did he feel like losing face before so many other Decepticons. Not that he was really one to care for reputations, but they assisted greatly in keeping the riff-raff in line. Knowing his excusable bracket of silence was quickly closing, the blue mech scoped the room, taking into account who was still present. Starscream was sitting, smug at the other's impeding misfortune, to the left of him; those wings twitching faintly and threatening to distract Soundwave further.

He hurriedly moved on. He did not need to have his attention wane any more, and Starscream would sense immediately if the communications officer attempted to brush along his processor. The coneheads were exiting the room now, their thoughts nothing but loud exclamations concerning high-grade, wind speeds and interfacing, and so not worth his time either. That only left a couple of the constructicons. Mixmaster, for obvious reasons, was out of the question, meaning Longhaul was his only chance. Soundwave dove into the other mech's processor immediately, digging for the information related to Megatron's earlier speech. Thankfully, this constructicon was more focused on the role he played in this upcoming scheme, and kept replaying the gun-former's words over and over to himself as he set about to work.

Adequate data collected, Soundwave turned his entire focus back to his waiting leader. "Mission: intercept transfer of new, untested super fuel to the Autobots. Fact: shall be leaving in half a joor to apprehend tankards. Strategy: have Ramjet, Dirge and Thrust lead with an aerial assault, while others gather the super fuel."

Megatron scowled as his exact plan was repeated back to him from the telepath's vocalizer; optics narrowing in suspicion. But seeing no reason to fault his loyal communications officer, the tyrant let this slip-up slide, impatient to set his schemes into motion. "In those fools' servos," the Decepticon leader began to rage, "That super fuel will be either a waste, or an overwhelming advantage. We cannot afford to have such odds against us, so we will take the fuel and use it for ourselves! Already, the construticons begin work on their new machine, which will allow us to properly analyze the contents of this super fuel; mass producing it and using it to its fullest potential. And once we have the upper hand, the Autobots shall meet their own demise, and this mud ball of a planet will be ours for the plundering!"

Soundwave and the others let the tyrant laugh maliciously as he finished his speech, understanding that such an action was practically tradition and should not dare be interrupted. But of course, there were always exceptions to that rule... "As always, glorious leader," Starscream cut in snidely, "But what about if we do not succeed? What happens when the Autobots manage to thwart you again and run off with the super fuel, hmm? Do the lackeys get beat again for such a failure, or will the one who made the plans finally get his just rewards?"

Deathly silence filled the room at the seeker's bold words.

Megatron growled as he landed furious, red optics on his SIC; an ocean of hate, indignation, annoyance and distaste flooding Soundwave's telepathic sensors. The emotions were so strong, that the communications officer was quite certain everybody else but Starscream could feel them. The seeker himself though was sitting as if he didn't have a care in the universe, his arms crossed over his cockpit defiantly, and his chin lifted in challenge. Seeing that this impeding argument would quickly blow into massive chaos, the tapedeck rose to his pedes, heading for the exit. Mixmaster, Longhaul and Scavenger quickly followed. They were out of the council room within astroseconds of Megatron roaring out his displeasure at his air commander; the door sliding close behind them and silencing all further sound. Not wanting to linger with the emotionless telepath, the construticons soon made their way back to their own hall, leaving Soundwave by himself.

Not that the communications officer really minded. The blue mech merely raised a servo, pressing the eject button along his shoulder plating.

"So... super fuel, eh?," Rumble said, once he had unfolded and landed lightly on the floor. "Sounds like it might be something fun. Yeah, boss?"

Soundwave nodded his helm slightly, turning and heading to the command deck, his casseticon following after him. More information would need to be gathered, like the exact route the shipment of super fuel was making, for when the Decepticon's two leading powers decided to come out from the council room.

And then, they could make their move.

**xxXxXxx**

"Decepticons with vehicle modes? Megatron's flipped his lid," Rumble muttered under his breath disbelievingly. Soundwave quickly prodded at his symbiont's processor in a scolding manner. The casseticon visibly squirmed at the touch, glancing up at the bigger Decepticon, before respectively falling quiet.

It was a reasonable reaction though, the telepath noted. He watched silently as the five vehicles rolled towards them, before, at the flick of the controller in Megatron's servo, they transformed and stood like individual Cybertronians before them. They were lacking any actual conscience though. Soundwave frowned, displeased by the blankness he could tangibly feel from the new mechs' processors. He couldn't quite understand what the tyrant had in mind for these useless drones, except that it brightened Megatron's mood considerably. Being unable to get the super fuel had been a blow, but the gun-former taking meaning out of something Rumble randomly commented on was... surprising.

It was even more of a shock when that burst of inspiration led the Decepticon leader to create five, near indestructible mechs that he was now dubbing the stunticons. "But, they've got no brains!," the casseticon said out loud, despite his creator's warning earlier. "What good are drones on a battlefield?"

Soundwave refrained from making any sound demonstrating his aggravation with his loose-lipped symbiont. Hopefully, Megatron would not feel inclined to blast the small mech into scrap metal. It seemed the communications officer's would-be prayer had been heard. Instead of snapping as he usually did, the tyrant merely grinned viciously, walking up to his newest army. "Of course they do not have brains. Yet, that is easily remedied," Megatron explained. "We take them to Cybertron now, where Shockwave tells me that Vector Sigma, the giver of life, still functions. We shall find this machine and use it on our new soldiers here -and when we return, Prime and his foolish companions will no longer conquer the roads over us!"

The tyrant laughed in malicious delight, and even Rumble was highly impressed by the grey mech's nefarious plot, but Soundwave neither cared nor noticed. His gaze was riveted to the stunticon looking back at him blankly; the dim optics void of any real life. Being stared at by a being that could not think nor feel yet should have been something that disturbed the telepath, yet he glazed over that fact, almost hypnotized by the other mech's appearance. He did not have wings, but his spoiler almost made the same sort of shape behind him; combined with the splashes of blue along his paintjob and the red faceplates, Soundwave was having a difficult time not keeping his thoughts from wandering.

It had only been a week since the movie studio incident, and yet the communications officer was hungry. He attempted to remain focused on the tasks before him, but always something reminded him of Tracks. A turn of phrase, a similar shade of blue, Starscream's fluttering wings... they drew in the telepath's attentions, before setting him off again on a series of simulations, all involving the Autobot at his pedes; begging, crying, screaming for some sort of hope as he was torn apart and invaded by the Decepticon. Soundwave desperately wished that their paths would cross again. He wanted to play with the darkness he had inflicted on the other mech, pick and pull at his processor as he slid back Tracks' codpiece; sliding into that hot, tight and wet val-

"Here Soundwave."

Megatron stood before the tapedeck, his servo holding out the controller to the stunticons' motor functions. Apparently, the warlord had not yet taken notice that his third-in-command was once again absent in thought, or else he would not appear as calm as he did now. Not wishing to incur any of the gun-former's wrath, Soundwave quickly pushed aside his current simulations, taking the controller from his leader. Megatron smirked crookedly.

"Come now," he said, leaping to the sky. His anti-gravity boosters held him aloft in the air. "The space bridge is ready for transport."

The blue mech played with the controller's dials, making the stunticons transform back to vehicle mode again. Satisfied with that, Soundwave too joined his leader in the air, Rumble following his actions. As they flew toward the newly constructed space bridge, the fresh batch of Decepticons drove below them, as per Soundwave's control.

**xxXxXxx**

They were leaving.

Tracks watched them from his corner of the room, energon cube lifted to his lip components. He did not drink from it, just kept it there, the liquid within lapping against his upper lip component every once in a while. It was odd that Optimus Prime would come and look for soldiers himself in the rec room -usually, he had either Prowl or Jazz do that. But, the corvette supposed, with both of the second and third in command out of the Ark, that meant such tasks had be carried out by the truck personally. And a good thing too.

Blaster was becoming too much of a nuisance now.

Tracks kept his optics pinned on the boombox, fingers tightening around his cube just the slightest. The rock n' roll loving mech had yet again dragged him from his pleasurable solitude and had forced him to come to the rec room. The corvette was neither hungry nor in the mood for games when Blaster had decided to intervene. In fact, the only thing Tracks wanted to do was tuck himself away again, in a dark, dank place where no one would find him, not even the amazing Hound. Which was why the winged Autobot was ever so thankful that Optimus had entered when he did, pulling Blaster to the side. The communications officer kept shooting intermittent glances back at Tracks, all of which, the blue mech quickly avoided when he caught them happening.

He didn't want to lead the boombox into believing he actually cared for his company right now.

Their leader's chat seemed to be drawing to a close though. Blaster nodded his helm, ending with a "Yes, sir" before he was heading toward the corvette again.

"I'm sorry, brother," Blaster sighed, shoulders heavy with his disappointment. "Prime needs a mech with the tunes, to deal with some Deceptigoons. We're soaring in just a few kliks... not quite sure when we'll be back planet-side."

It looked like the communications officer was expecting some sort of response. "...I see...," Tracks mumbled slowly, lowering his cube just the slightest.

"Yeah, mech." Blaster cycled another weary intake, before smiling forcibly at the corvette. "But, I promise to make it up to you when we get back. We'll kick it, real style, yeah?"

No, he wanted to snarl. Instead, the winged mech plastered a neutral smile on his face; his empty gaze pinning the boombox down. "Of course," was his reply. The words seemed enough to make the red Autobot brighten once more.

"Alright! Well, I'll check ya later, brother!," Blaster chirped, spinning around and hurrying for the rec room door. He waved merrily to Bluestreak who was just walking in at the moment, before his frame disappeared around the corner and out of sight.

Good riddance, the other voice whispered darkly within him. Tracks on the outside did not change his expression; lifting his cube to his mouth again and looking about the rec room. His cold gaze fixed itself on Bluestreak's oddly subdued form, molesting the lowered doorwings and anxious, flitting optics. Contemplation had the corvette cocking his helm to the side as he continued his study; decision forcing him from his seat as he saw the talkative Datsun take his own seat across the room -well away from the others.

He was barely noticed as he sidled up to the gunner.

"You seem down, love," Tracks said, slipping easily into the open seat next to Bluestreak.

The grey mech started at the statement, turning his distracted optics to the corvette. "U-ummm... y-well, no, n-not really," Bluestreak mumbled softly. "I-i-i mean, i-it's nothing im-important o-or any-"

The winged Autobot rested a servo on top of the Datsun's clasped servos, cutting the other mech off from his painfully forced excuses. "It's alright," Tracks cooed, inching closer. He let his thumb brush the other's servos, as he leaned in to the stuttering gunner. "I understand. You don't have to say anything."

Bluestreak tried to speak, but his vocalizer quit on him soon after. He turned his helm away, staring at the table top. Scheming processor at work, Tracks chose this moment to pull away. The action did as he predicted: drew the Datsun's attention, forcing Bluestreak to look up at him again. The desperateness the blue mech had seen earlier was tenfold that now. He would have smirked, if it would not be detrimental to his plan.

"W-wait! D-do you th-think, maybe...," Bluestreak mumbled, his optics rising and falling in a continuous, nervous fashion. "C-could we, po-possibly...?"

The madness returned to his optics, a predatory smirk coming to the corvette's lip components. "If you'd like, love," he whispered in offer, crooking his finger for the gunner to follow. Bluestreak hesitated only a moment, glancing quickly at his oblivious comrades, before getting up and hurrying after Tracks.

**xxXxXxx**

Cybertron looked almost the same as they had left it eons ago.

Soundwave marched through the rusting, broken city of Iacon -once before the great strong-hold of the Autobot forces. Now, Shockwave ruled over it as his main base of operations; sentinel drones moving through the rubble-strewn streets in heavy patrols. The guardian had given them the coordinates to Vector Sigma, and after retrieving the key necessary from Alpha Trion, they were now heading for the lower levels of Cybertron and to the super computer below.

But Soundwave could not keep his thoughts from wandering.

Too many of the sights around him, though damaged and decaying, were familiar and they stirred a strange sense of nostalgia within the communications officer. He recalled all too well what these streets used to look like before war consumed the planet, and the last of their kind were pitted against each other from opposite sides. He had first been a spy within this city, before Decepticon forces had thrown it into chaos. Soundwave remembered...

_...the streets were shining and glittering. 'Bots, of all colour and model walked back and forth on the polished sidewalk; some occupying the road as they drove massive loads between various locations. Sparklings, young and care-free, ran around and through their creators' legs, laughing merrily in their joy. Even the older mechs and femmes were enjoying themselves; basking in the warm sunlight of the orn. He watched them, analyzing everything they did; scoffing at their disdain. How foolish of them to continue like this, as if the threat of Megatron's rise to power was something that did not affect them._

_Soon, they would no longer be laughing, but scrambling in terror as Decepticons swept through the city, causing destruction as they went. Their overtly decorative buildings and extravagant lifestyles would spell the end of them, and Cybertron would come under a new rule when-_

"Woah!" Rumble jumped to the side as part of a structure crumbled, raining down on the casseticon's helm. Narrowly avoiding the rubble, the blue symbiont turned to the larger mechs, grinning sheepishly as he realized that he had drawn their attention.

"Be careful, idiot," Megatron growled, turning around and continuing his march forwards. "I will not waste time clearing away buildings if you topple them on yourself."

"Y-yes, sir," the casseticon stuttered meekly. He caught the disapproving look Soundwave sent him, and hurried to catch up with the gun-former. Annoyed that he had been interrupted from his memories, the communications officer continued after the other two, commanding the mindless stunticons to trail after him.

Rounding the corner, the blue Decepticon fell once more into the world of the old Iacon, as he once remembered it, glowing brightly under the rays of a brilliant star while...

_...while he roamed between the ignorant Cybertronians, none of them noticing as he dipped into their processors, pulling out secrets and half-truths welded there. It was all useless information, and he quickly tossed it aside, not caring for these fools' every day life activities. A youngling, laughing obnoxiously with his friends, tore through the crowd. He tripped though as he was spinning around an elderly couple just before himself; the youngling falling smack into his side plating._

_He scowled as slight pain resounded off of his sensory net, no doubt a scratch being left behind from the younger mech's careless running. The pulses of fear and embarrassment annoyed him as they echoed within his helm, making him want to tear the youngling's chassis to pieces. He simply did not have the patience to deal with these reckless sparklings. They'd all be offline soon anyways. With all of his restraint, he pushed the youngling off of him, ignoring the stuttered apologies as he continued on into the crowd._

_He slipped into his facade of disinterest as he wandered further along the street, before a flash of white caught his optics among the swell of silver, blues, and greens. Turning, he saw-_

Megatron stopped at the head of the group, looking about. As if coming to sudden realization, the tyrant walked to the right, pushing aside a mass of bent plating and melted wiring. The screech that followed was extremely painful to the audio receptors, and Soundwave had a hard time not simply clapping a servo over them like Rumble did. Grunting, Megatron pushed the debris well enough away, revealing the maintenance shaft that had been beneath it.

"Shockwave's coordinates lead down here," the grey mech announced. "It is not much further to Vector Sigma."

The communications officer turned his helm to the side, increasing his sensors proximity parameters and scanning the nearby ruins. His gaze shifted from each rusted, skeletal structure, until he rested his optics on one building that struck a sense of deja vu within him. He looked closer, almost able to see the faint strips of paint that-

_...were like candy stripes around the frame of the doors and windows. They blended in with the metallic vines and pods that were set in pots before the quaint shop; their steel leaves and stems shimmering in glittering gradients of violet, pinks and orange. A sign above the door was written in elegant glyphs, announcing that the store was of custom-made frame alterations and decals. In the window, was a display of unique and beautiful emblems, crafted from various colours of crystal -a popular fashion statement as of the moment._

_But that's not what had garnered his attention._

_No, it was the mech that stood in the doorway of the shop, happily conversing with another 'bot, that had his full attention. This unknown 'bot was a myriad of colours: blue chassis, black forearms and thighs, red faceplates, and white helm. But his most extraordinary feature was the white wings that fluttered once in a while behind him._

_He slowed down some, staring unabashedly at the winged mech. How very odd, he thought to himself. He had never seen a 'bot with wings, who wasn't a Vosian. The seekers under Megatron's rule, were very proud creatures; they were especially vain about their wings and viewed anyone who couldn't fly as inferior. But others outside of the Vosian culture viewed their flying cousins as the distasteful ones, and cared nothing for the wings and turbines the other Cybertronians boasted. Which is why he was so surprised to see a mech outside the prestigious model-type bearing his own set of wings._

_The unknown 'bot looked proud of them as well. He did not mind a few of the nasty glances cast his way, instead, tossing his helm back and fluttering his wings in the bright, warm sunlight with dignity. His lip components mouthed something, before kindly beckoning to the customer to come indoors. The both of them disappeared within the shop._

_He could not tear his optics away from the little store, even after the winged mech had been gone from the doorway for about a klik. A fleeting idea, to reach out and peek into the thoughts of that stranger, passed through his processor. But he eventually shook it aside, knowing that there was too much interference within the crowd for him to get a proper reading anyhow._

_Unconcerned about the oddly built 'bot any longer, he turned, walking back through the streets of Iacon._

Soundwave pulled away from his thoughts, feeling strangely lopsided from the memories. He had always thought that Tracks looked familiar... how odd, that he had seen the Autobot so long ago, but had not realized until now. Obviously, the corvette had upgraded his frame some as war spread through the whole of Cybetron; replacing flimsy, decorative alloy for heavy battle armour.

The Decepticon couldn't help but think that Tracks was beautiful all the same, no matter what his plating.

He could feel his lust stirring, reminded of the multi-coloured mech. Oh, how he hungered for him, even now. He couldn't wait until they returned to Earth; the communications officer was going to track the Autobot down as soon as they got back, and get them alone together for a proper reunion. The very thought had his systems purring in wicked delight, and he dutifully ignored Rumble's curious look at the miniscule sound.

Turning away from the ruins, and the haunting images they provided, Soundwave controlled the stunticon drones to follow Megatron down the maintenance shaft, before jumping down himself.

**xxXxXxx**

Twin voices cried out as they overloaded; Tracks trembling as he attempted to support himself above the gasping Bluestreak. The poor Datsun's optics were dim, his coolings fans whirring quickly as they attempted to bring his systems back to stability. He tried to focus on the corvette above him, but the effort was too much for his spent frame, and Bluestreak tiredly mumbled something; pulling Tracks down and sloppily kissing him before he slipped off into recharge. He never noticed the stiffness that took over the other's chassis, or the sneer that soon showed itself on the multi-coloured Autobot's faceplates.

Unwinding his partner's arms from around his neck cables, Tracks pulled away, groaning a little as his spike slid out from the gunner's tight valve, warm fluids trickling out at his exit. His sensory net still hummed from the pleasant activities him and Bluestreak had just participated in, his processor for once a calm plane of empty thought. The corvette sat on the edge of the berth, tucking himself away and wiping any extra lubricant off of his pelvic plating. It had been pleasant, their past few cycles together, but his serenity was quickly leaving again.

He needed something more... something hard and fast and painfully good.

Anything to chase the stirring shadows within his helm away again, for a few more joors.

Tracks looked back at the unconscious Bluestreak, slowly lifting a servo to his lip components. He knew the gunner was desperate, but he had not counted on being kissed. Snorting, the winged mech quickly rose, leaving the room.

**xxXxXxx**

The golden orb that was Vector Sigma lowered to the floor, still shining like a young star. In the deep, void tone that it spoke with, it announced, "Personality programming completed," its light flashing in time with each uttered syllable. As one, the newly conscious stunticons turned to the approaching tyrant; their processors a well of unrestrained and indecipherable thought.

"I am Megatron, your leader," Megatron proclaimed, standing before his soldiers. "Declare yourselves to me."

Optics and visors flashed as their rampant thoughts began to settle, becoming clear and precise tangents instead of just white noise. Falling into a pose each unique to them, the stunticons heeded to their master's command. Soundwave watched as one by one, these young Decepticons spoke in turns, naming themselves and giving their own pledge of loyalty. The tapedeck himself did not care for the words they said... he was more focused on scanning their helms, making sense of their rapid thoughts. He heard nothing traitorous there. Vector Sigma had done well in his deed, having made the stunticons completely obedient to Megatron.

"I... I'm Breakdown."

The hesitant speaker though caught his attention, and for once, the communications officer decided to pay attention to the mech talking. Somehow, he wasn't that surprised to see it was the white one with the red faceplates. 'Breakdown', as he called himself, quickly glanced at Soundwave, before anxiously turning his attention back towards Megatron. A spike of fear, confusion and... something else, not quite definable, brushed against Soundwave's sensors.

"I'll obey too," the lamborghini finished lamely, hurrying to step out of the spotlight, and allow his other brothers to announce themselves.

The tapedeck discreetly kept his attentions on the odd stunticon, catching the quick, nervous glances being shot his way continuously.

**xxXxXxx**

"Primus... you're such a greedy little whore."

The servos at his helm pulled him further down, forcing his mouth open wider; making him swallow down more of the spike filling his mouth. He choked a little at first, before his throat cables relaxed some, and his partner groaned wantonly at the tightness. Another mech, just behind him, grunted as he set into a heavy rhythm; pounding into the submissive 'bot's eager valve.

"Frag, yeah... Ooh, suck me some more."

He obliged, rolling his glossa as best as he could about the rigid length down his throat. Another, long, pleased moan met his actions.

"Oh, for the love of Cybertron... Look at how he takes it! Have you ever seen anybody bend over like that for so much." The voice was thick and staticky, filled with hungry awe. It was obvious he wanted in on the action.

"Stupid... fragging...traitor... would take it... for... nngh... a Decepticon!"

The sudden change of pace hit all his sensor nodes right, making him lose focus on the spike he was currently eating; moaning about its width delightfully. The servos about his helm pushed him down further, grabbing his chevron roughly and demanding that he continue. He did so willingly, not wanting either to stop. The sounds of interfacing filled his audios, creating a symphony of wet, clanging squelches, wrapped in a cocoon of expelled, tangy transfluids and spoiling high-grade, that tickled the olfactory sensors in a most displeasing fashion. Not that he cared... as long as he was being stuffed this deliciously.

Laughter circled the room at his one partner's words, before it dulled down into idle chatter again; almost unnoticed through the dark and interfacing.

**xxXxXxx**

He was annoyed...

"Soundwave, what news of the items?" The communications officer turned to Megatron, acknowledging the question, before facing his monitor again. His fingers tapped away at the keys, bringing up the documents he had just been viewing before.

"Status: Ruby en route to museum. Fact: should arrive later this week, in time for display on the seventeenth," the tapedeck answered.

"Good," the warlord grinned. "Keep lazerbeak posted, and notify me immediately of any changes." That said, the gun-former turned and left Soundwave to himself; his thoughts whispering something about paying someone a 'visit'.

Soundwave didn't really care to know just who that somebody was.

Waiting until his sensors deemed it all clear, the telepath quickly tapped into his private link with Ratbat. _'Order: report status.'_

The bat-like casseticon signalled back his position, sending a wave length of silent codes stating his emotional, mental and physical stats. Soundwave listened to the whispered message, making note of it at the back of his processor. _'Inquiry: and Tracks?'_

The symbiont lapsed into a small quiet reprieve, before again reporting. All was quiet on his end, he announced. The Autobot had done nothing out of the norm that he could see of. Unless called for missions, Tracks was keeping to himself or otherwise holing up in dark places away from the rest of the crew. It seemed no one was aware of his deteriorating mental state still.

That sounded promising.

The communications officer leaned back in his seat, blocking the transmission with Ratbat for a moment while he mulled over some things. He was interrupted though, by the casseticon's increased pestering. With an unheard snarl, Soundwave allowed the connection through; processor pressing heavily on the little mech's thoughts. It was almost as if he was snappishly saying _'What?!'_ , to which Ratbat squeaked and trembled, sending waves of fear and apology back to his master.

Hungry and tired, were the next messages to come through, once the symbiont had guessed that the telepath had calmed down some again; then a request to return home.

The plea increased Soundwave's sour mood, and he was tempted to say no to his creation just out of spite. But Ratbat's dropping energon levels would mean a lack of focus, which, with the ditzy casseticon, could mean an easy capture. The blue mech could not afford to lose one of his symbionts to the Autobots, even if they were somewhat inferior to the others. Especially not if Blaster was there as well, and could extract all of Ratbat's secrets out of the little mech, ruining everything for Soundwave.

_'Request: granted,'_ the communications officer grudgingly replied. _'Goal: remain in stealth-mode, until having returned to my quarters.'_

Ratbat's relief was overwhelming. Soundwave cut the connection, attempting to reign in his chaotic emotions. It had been weeks since the return to Earth from Cybertron. Getting the stunticons was a victory in itself, but to the tapedeck, who found himself lost in a world of memories from the time when Iacon still shone as a beacon of hope for the people, it was a bittersweet triumph. All he hungered for now, was Tracks. His need, his desires, ran wildly through him; wishing to be buried deep within that lovely valve, seeing those beautiful faceplates twisted in pain and misery. If he had only noticed the Autobot sooner, taken action to grab the winged mech when he first saw him back in Iacon -Tracks could be in his very quarters this instant, either an allied soldier of the Decepticons, or otherwise his own, personal pet! Both ideas were promising, just as long as it meant the corvette was his to do with as he pleased.

Truly, the communications officer thought to himself, he was obsessed.

And all be damned to the Pit if he was about to let Tracks go now.

The sudden encroaching thoughts had Soundwave tensing in his seat, lifting his servos to the console as a cover for his lacking attentions. Inclining his helm slightly to the doorway, the blue mech glanced behind him, watching as Breakdown tittered into the room. The stunticon looked up from his pedes, but noticing the tapedeck's gaze, quickly skittered around the edge of the room, his backstruts to the other Decepticon. Scanning the lamborghini's processor -who was still young enough and was not fully aware of the communications officer's abilities yet- Soundwave found that Breakdown had no real reason to be here. The anxious mech was deliberating something fierce within himself, walking from point to random point within the monitor room.

Tired, of both the lack of progress with Tracks and the pointless duties forced upon him, Soundwave decided to just let the lamborghini do whatever the slag he wished; turning his full focus back to his monitor and blocking out the weak, nervous thoughts being sent out by the other.

Whatever he had been expecting Breakdown to do, it did not include coming up behind him several kliks later and clapping his servos over the communications officer's visor. Soundwave barely had time to get furious with the personal contact, before he was being turned around in his seat. He caught a glimpse of red cheekplates closing in from the bottom edge of his visor, before trembling lip components were pressed timidly against his battle mask. The effect was instantaneous. Soundwave grasped the other mech, pulling him up into his lap and caging the other there, while his servos hurried to molest white wings.

It was in the next astrosecond that the tapedeck realized just who he was holding, when his servos did not come across wings, but a spoiler instead.

Furious, he ripped his helm away from Breakdown's servos, glaring at the lamborghini. Breakdown squirmed in his lap, letting his servos rest on his trembling thighs. "Forgive me... I understand if you do not care for me, since I am so young and boring this hideous model-type," the stunticon started softly. "B-but I... I-i confess, I am-"

Soundwave's servos tightened around the other Decepticon's spoiler, making Breakdown wince slightly. Anxiously, the lamborghini leaned forward, pecking the tapedeck once more. "P-please...," he stuttered, red optics peering into Soundwave's visor imploringly. "I-i'll do whatever you'd like... j-just one frag, that's all I ask."

He wanted to say 'no'. The communications officer wanted to shove the audacious stunticon to the floor, before promptly tearing into Breakdown's helm and making the young Decepticon pay for his trickery. But the charge was building up in his systems so intensely now, and he couldn't just brush it aside. It would no doubt distract him for the rest of his shift and well into the night; his casseticons would more than like comment on it as well. It had been so long since he last had to deal with a charge, especially on his own. Interfacing could easily take care of that, but the tapedeck was not one to simply give in and do so. He had not done so since joining Megatron's forces actually... Stirring up war had been a duty that took up all of his free time, besides, there was no one Soundwave would willingly frag here on the Nemesis. All the Decepticons were either idiots or sneaky backstabbers. Not worth his time and energy.

Though Breakdown irritated him, the proposition he offered was... tempting.

Soundwave weighed the options available to him, his gaze relentless as he studied the increasingly panicked stunticon.

If he manipulated his visual input, changed the saturation of the pixels slightly...

"Status: monitor duty almost finished. Order: come to quarters in approximately twelve breems. Administer stealth."

Breakdown's nervous shifting stopped altogether. His red optics flared at the the communications officer's words, mouth slightly agape in shock. Lip components quirking a little in incredulous delight, the lamborghini hurriedly pressed forwards again, dropping one last kiss on the other mech's battle mask before sliding off of Soundwave's lap. "Yes, of course," the stunticon babbled. "I will do as you say."

Breakdown hurried from the room, his helm turned down and his optics to the floor again as he went.

Soundwave did not bother to watch the white mech go, already given a detailed narrative from the lamborghini's over-bearing thoughts. Quietly, the tapedeck turned his chair back to the monitors, hardly giving any of the screens actual attention. Judging by Breakdown's eagerness, it seemed likely that the stunticon would forgo the time limit set by the communications officer and come a couple breems earlier. That would be fine though. Soundwave's shift ended in six more breems, giving him plenty of time to return to his quarters and prepare for Breakdown's arrival.

He'd even be able to intercept Ratbat before the other mech showed up, sending out Buzzsaw in the other symbiont's place.

Content for the moment in his decisions, Soundwave finally turned his entire focus to the console.


	5. If they come at all

**Suggested Listening: Behind the Wall- Tracy Chapman**

**Chapter 5: ...if they come at all**

"Whore."

The cruel word cut through the silence, stabbing Tracks in the audio receptors. He did his best to ignore it, but the spectre standing behind his cracked mirror refused to be silent. He growled, pressing up to the confines of his prison. "As if one wasn't enough... Now you lower yourself for all these other fools?!," he hissed. "Do you think this makes you better in their optics! To see you down on your servos and knees; spread wide open for any mech?"

"It's not for them," the corvette replied tersely. He closed the lid on his wax, standing up and checking his appearance over the mech in his view.

The spectre spat off to the side in disgust.

"I'll do whatever it takes not to remember," Tracks added, turning away from the mirror. "No matter the cost..."

The 'bot in the glass only scowled as he watched the Autobot walk away. "That's not escaping," his words rang in the room, before Tracks was gone.

**xxXxXxx**

He had waited for as long as he had been told.

Glancing up and down the hall nervously, Breakdown reached forward, knocking on the door. It hissed open immediately, granting him access. "S-soundwave...?," he squeaked, edging inside slowly. The door closed behind him again, causing the lamborghini to tremble. Fearfully, he looked forward, his optics flaring brightly as paranoia began to rise within him.

His wild thoughts began to calm though the instant they landed on the communications officer. He sat at a large computer desk at the other end of the room; his servos flying across the console as he entered something into the database. The mech didn't even bother to look back to see who had just entered his room, no doubt already knowing that it was the stunticon. The assumption -surprisingly correct, though the white mech did not know that- soothed Breakdown's nervous spark.

"I-i've come," he stammered to Soundwave. "Just as you instructed."

The blue mech finally turned his helm, his visor glowing in the near-darkness. Though other such glances might have thrown the lamborghini into one of his paranoid fits, Soundwave's gaze did no such thing. It was, in Breakdown's opinion, unnecessary. The communications officer had been there at the moment of his creation -the mech already knew all there was to the stunticon. He did not have to spare the effort to tear back Breakdown's plating to dig up the secrets and lies he bore within. Was it no wonder, comforted by this irrational disillusionment, that the younger Decepticon felt relatively safe in Soundwave's presence?

"Berth," the telepath ordered monotonously, turning back to his monitor.

Spark pulsing in anticipation, Breakdown headed for the aforementioned item. He crawled onto the metal surface, moving half-way up the berth before deciding he had gone far enough. He sat down slowly, his optics flickering at Soundwave's turned back struts. The other Decepticon either did not notice or care that the stunticon was casting him frequent glances, still fixed on whatever work he was currently attending to. The tapedeck's lack of action only furthered Breakdown's serenity.

"Did you send the others away...?," he asked quietly, turning his attentions away from Soundwave for a moment. His red optics scanned the bland room carefully, half-expecting to see another pair of optics staring back at him. The thought of it made the lamborghini tense fearfully, a trickle of doubts filling his spark as conspiracies began to run through his processor. But even after his intense scrutiny, Breakdown found no other 'bots lurking about. It seemed the communications officer had cleared his symbionts out of the room.

Again, Breakdown was overjoyed by this fact; his engines purred lightly in response to his relatively good mood. Distracted in his thoughts as he was, he almost didn't notice that Soundwave had risen. His helm snapped up as the tapedeck reached for him, a blue servo grabbing his chin and forcing him to look directly into the other's visor. Intakes faltering, the stunticon tried to keep his rising blush down. He couldn't stop the little wish within himself though, almost begging for the communications officer to remove his battle mask and kiss him.

"Order: on your knees," Soundwave eventually spoke, releasing the white mech. He crossed his arms behind his back struts, waiting for Breakdown to comply to his demands.

Confused a little, and slightly uneasy, the lamborghini did as requested for him. He shifted, getting on his knees, his back turned to the other Decepticon. He opened his mouth to say something, but words escaped him as he felt those knowing servos alight on his frame. Slowly, they moved, forcing his thighs wide open; trailing up the back of his legs and stroking along his spoiler. Breakdown keened desperately at the touches, his codpiece retracting with a rapid click, exposing his sealed valve to Soundwave. Already, lubricants slicked the aperture; a sign of his youth and eagerness.

The communications officer climbed onto the berth behind him silently, taking his time to align himself. The stunticon had only a moment to register the telepath's own codpiece retracting, before a spike was piercing his valve suddenly, viciously tearing apart his seal and sliding into his tight passage. His engine choked at the brutal entry, intakes faltering as he arched to get away from the agony. Soundwave grabbed his helm though, slamming it into the berth as the blue mech began to piston his hips, ruining any chance for escape. Breakdown's servos scrambled against the metal surface beneath him; gasping and whimpering as coolant pooled about his optics.

He almost regretted coming to the tapedeck.

His doubts though were erased after the first several thrusts, heat beginning to slither through his energon lines as his sensor nodes finally registered pleasure from the spike stretching him.

**xxXxXxx**

"Sludge want secret!"

Tracks backed away from the dinobot quickly, his faceplates twisted in an angry snarl. "No, you dumb brute," the corvette hissed. " _Leave me alone_." He turned, hurrying down the Ark hallway. Sludge followed along at his heels, still huffing and puffing away.

"Sludge say yes!," the brontosaurus protested, trying to cut off the multi-coloured mech's retreat again. Tracks quickly sidestepped the dinobot, increasing his pace. His optics flickered this way and that, anxiously aware of the fact that there were others on base at the moment. Though none of them were currently occupying the same corridor as the two Autobots, there was no doubt in the corvette's processor that his seemingly good luck might run out soon. And once someone did show up, the questions would start...

Intent on avoiding such an occurrence, Tracks headed for the Ark's exit. Sludge was positively growling now, his childish display of being denied for so long. "Sludge say pretty car show secret again," the dinobot demanded, "Sludge want secret."

The Autobot stormed around the side of the Ark, wanting to be as far away from the others as was possible. "Listen you," he snarled, whirling on the dinobot once they'd gone a safe distance around the mountainside. He stepped up to Sludge, his finger jabbing into the brontosaurus' chestplates. "You're not getting your slagging 'secret'. I only needed you for that one night -Primus be damned if I should frag you again."

The dinobot shuttered his optics confused, his lip components fixed in a puzzled frown. "But Sludge..."

"I don't care what 'Sludge' wants!," Tracks yelled. "Keep your filthy claws to yourself and stop following me all orn long!"

Wings fluttering in his ire, the corvette turned back around, prepared to storm back around the mountain and head out for a long drive. "Go fish or something with your idiot brothers," he said in farewell.

He didn't even get as far as two metres. Tracks gasped as he was shoved into the mountainside, the impact of his collision creating a small crater; shards of the rock digging into his plating and scratching the paint. "L-let me go!," he choked, trying to move back against the servo pinning him down. "Slaggit -let me go this instant you stupid dinosaur!"

"No," Sludge panted, moving closer to his captive, "Sludge want secret, he say. Sludge get now."

"W-what? No! Sludge, if you even dare, I'll-!" The rest of Tracks threat was lost as he cried out in pain, the dinobot's servo wrenching back his codpiece none too gently. But the corvette didn't have time to even reflect on it, because Sludge was entering into him not a moment after. Whimpering against the agony, the Autobot scrambled to get purchase on the rock, vainly hoping that he could escape. But the other mech's power was too strong, and Tracks could not get out from under the harsh grip holding him down against the rock wall; his legs being spread open wider as the brontosaurus set into a wild, frenzied pace.

Sensor nodes crackled inside of him, at least several fizzling out from the brutal ramming into his passage. "S-stop...," he begged, coolant pooling about his optics. He screamed at a particularly hard thrust, unable to even fold into himself. "P-please!"

Sludge adjusted his angle, increasing his pace. The servo on his backstruts moved to his helm and Tracks found his cheekplate being dug into the mountainside as the dinobot raced to his completion. His screams died down to whimpers, and his tears becoming nothing more than a gloss over his optics. Finally resigned, the corvette made no other sound than the occasional grunt and groan; hissing as the brontosaurus finished inside of him with a choked roar. The large mech's transfluids filled his valve, making the torn and damaged sensors ache at the additional fluid.

Breathing heavily, the dinobot slowly withdrew from the winged Autobot, tucking himself away. Even though he had been released, Tracks did not move from his spot. "S-sludge li-like secret," the other mech purred gravelly in the back of his vocalizer. He leaned towards the rigid corvette, nuzzling the back of his helm. "Pretty car all Sludge alone."

Tracks didn't even shutter his optics at the statement.

Unconcerned about the multi-coloured 'bot's silence, Sludge turned around and transformed; meandering somewhere off into the surrounding foliage. It was almost a full breem before the corvette moved, his stiff arms pushing him slowly off of the rock wall. His legs, unable to hold his weight just yet, crumbled beneath him; Tracks falling to the floor none to gently. He didn't care. With dim optics, he bowed his helm, slowly reaching between his aching thighs and grasping his codpiece. He hissed, denta bared tightly, as he pried the protective plating back into place, covering himself once more.

It was when he went to go wipe at his stained thighs with a clothe that everything came rushing back in; the Autobot stopped, trembling, tears falling down his cheekplates in torrents. He folded into himself, his arms rising up and cradling about his helm in a defensive manner.

No one was there to hear the corvette's wails of despair as his walls cracked.

**xxXxXxx**

They scrambled through the dimly lit room, avoiding another monitor as it was thrown across the room in their master's rage. Ducking quickly, Rumble just barely missed being crushed by the chair that went sailing next; he huddled underneath the table with his siblings, grasping Frenzy tightly in his terror. From outside of their sanctuary, they heard Ratbat squeak in fright, flapping his wings frantically as he tried to escape. The purple symbiont shot past the others' hiding spot, sky-rocketing for the highest corner of the room, just as Soundwave's pede came into view.

A crippling telepathic wave tore through all of the symbionts' processors, making them whimper in distress. Their master was furious this orn. The mental assault disoriented Ratbat, who slammed into the wall; spiralling back down to the floor after his collision. Buzzsaw, the only one not to have taken cover like his other siblings, watched from his perch on Soundwave's berth as the communications officer slowly approached the fallen Ratbat. Coming back online, the ditzy casseticon quailed as he noticed the giant shadow stalking towards him, but wisely did not attempt to flee again.

The twins flinched as Soundwave grabbed for their smaller sibling; even Ravage whining lowly in his vocalizer as Ratbat squealed in agony. The tapedeck did not care, viciously shaking the purple symbiont. "Inquiry: How could you have missed such vital information?," he demanded, his usually flat tone rife with raw fury. "Where were your sensors?!"

The little casseticon pleaded for mercy from his master, wriggling wildly in the blue mech's hold. His apologies though meant nothing to Soundwave. He grabbed Ratbat by his wing with his other servo, crushing the delicate metal. The others turned their optics away, turning down their audios at the terrible scream that followed. Enraged, the communications officer threw Ratbat away from him, his injured symbiont skidding across the floor before coming to a stop. The small casseticon did not even lift his helm. Though they were concerned for their sibling, none of the other symbionts were willing to invoke Soundwave's wrath upon themselves by coming out of hiding.

"Designation: Buzzsaw," the Decepticon said, turning to the black and gold casseticon. "Order: return to Autobot headquarters. Maintain surveillance on Autobot Tracks."

The bird-like symbiont crowed angrily, sending messages of displeasure to his master. Soundwave said nothing, once more sending out a telepathic wave that had Buzzsaw bowing weakly in pain. "Status: Lazerbeak on data collection for Megatron. Fact: You will obey my command," the communications officer stated darkly, increasing his mental grip on the casseticon's processor.

Buzzsaw squawked his agreement, optics flashing once Soundwave had retracted from his processor. He fluttered his wings, preparing to take flight once more. "Suggestion: Do not fail me," Soundwave warned. "Consequences: will be absolute."

The black and gold symbiont nodded his helm in understanding, jetting off into the air and disappearing into the ventilation shaft at the top of the room. The Decepticon did not even bother to watch his creation leave. Turning, he stepped over Ratbat's limp form, heading for his remaining computers. He tapped away at the console keys, feeling his anger ebb and rise like the waves of the ocean surrounding the Nemesis. He could not believe how much Ratbat had failed him, not noticing that Tracks was sneaking away into dark places with other Autobots. Only Buzzsaw's need for perfection had captured footage of those Autobots taking claim in what was rightfully his.

The rage he felt was like nothing that Soundwave could ever recall feeling before. He wanted nothing more than to storm into the Ark and tear every limb from the mechs that dared to touch his Tracks, before cornering the corvette last and reminding him of exactly who he belonged to. But that was a fool's desire, and only common sense kept the communications officer from acting upon it. If he did do something so stupid as single-handedly attempting to attack the Ark, there was no doubt in his processor that he would be easily overwhelmed and everything that he had worked for thus far would be lost. No... Soundwave would not do something so rash.

Fingers moving faster, a mad, determined sort of fervour overcame the blue mech. He might not be able to take the direct approach, but there were many other ways that he could correct this horrible situation, Soundwave knew. And correct it, he would.

Tracks would be his in the end.

**xxXxXxx**

"Tracks!" The corvette turned slightly at the call of his name, feeling disgust pull at his lip components as he saw Blaster make his way towards him. He quickly schooled his features into a neutral expression. "Hey, brother," the boombox greeted warmly. "What's kicking?"

"Must you use such odd lingo," Tracks sighed exasperatedly. He kept walking, Blaster keeping pace with him.

"Well, uh...," the communications officer blushed in embarrassment, scratching his cheekplate. "I guess not. I mean, if it bothers you that much."

"Don't make exceptions for me," the multi-coloured mech replied. _'Primus, how pathetic...'_ He kept his optics open for any opportunity that would allow him to escape the other Autobot's company, not wanting to put up with Blaster and his need to socialize.

"Anyways!," Blaster exclaimed cheerfully. "I was just down at this awesome concert with Spike and Carly. I saved some of the tunes for later use. I know Jazz has another party in the works, so it'll be wicked to share these kicking jams with the others. They'll just love them, I'm sure!"

_'Unlikely...,'_ that other voice whispered inside of the corvette. It wasn't a secret that almost everybody on the Ark couldn't stand the red mech's taste in music, with the exception of Jazz. It was only tolerated during a party situation, where Prowl had dampeners already installed on the sound system and high-grade muted out the rest of the noise. Tracks though was not about to point this out to Blaster, no matter how much a darker part of him wanted to see the moron's face crumple in despair.

"You'll come...yeah?"

Tracks glanced momentarily at Blaster, before turning his focus forwards again. "I suppose," he answered. "It depends on how tired I am that night." An excuse, he knew, because he was already aware of the fact that he would indeed be going to that party. It had been almost a decacycle since he had last interfaced with anyone... his thoughts and nightmares were beginning to rise again within him. This party, with its high-grade and ignorant fools, offered the only chance at reprieve from the spectre haunting him. Tracks could not allow such an opportunity to slip out of his servos.

The communications officer nodded his helm in understanding at the corvette's words, crossing his arms behind his back nervously. "Well, I-i, umm, I hope y-you can come," he stammered, his cheekplates flushing slightly with yet another blush. "Hey, Tracks...," he started softly, stopping and grasping the other Autobot's tire lightly.

The multi-coloured mech had no choice but to stop as well. "Yes?," he asked, turning to Blaster. _'Make it quick,'_ he hissed within. He resisted the urge to tear himself away from the red Autobot's over-friendly touch.

"U-umm, you see," Blaster stuttered further, his optics dropping to the floor for a moment. "What it is, I mean, what I want to say is-"

The corridor began to flash red as the alarm went off; Teletraan I's voice ringing throughout the Ark in warning. "Autobots," Optimus' voice came over the intercom next, speaking over top of the shrill alarm. "The Decepticons are attacking a nuclear plant. All available personnel prepare for battle and report to the front immediately! Optimus, out."

Blaster looked at Tracks, a wry grin pulling at his lip components again. "Count on the Deceptigoons to be up to no good. I've gotta go get Eject and Ramhorn -we'll talk later, after the battle, alright Tracks? I've got something to tell you."

The corvette could only nod silently. Patting the other's shoulder tire, the red mech tore off down the hall, heading to his room. Tracks waited until he was sure Blaster was gone before back-pedaling and leaning heavily on the closest wall. His intakes came in quick, desperate bursts; his engine turning over fearfully. Forcing his terror away, the winged Autobot started for the entrance, trying to tell himself that everything would be okay.

**xxXxXxx**

Soundwave did not even flinch at the laser charge that flew past his helm, missing by mere inches. With deadly precision, the communications officer lifted his gun, taking down the charging Bluestreak. The mech hit the ground hard and did not rise. Scoping the battlefield quickly, the Decepticon analyzed how his faction was faring thus far. At the moment, they seemed to be on the verge of winning. Astrotrain and Blitzwing had already left with a substantial supply of energon cubes stored in their hulls, and the coneheads were ordered to gather more if the chance arose. The rest of the troops were locked in a deadly match with the Autobots, and even Megatron was wrestling with Optimus in the middle of the battlefield. Wheeljack and his companion Perceptor were trying to inch for the plant's reactor, intent on stabilizing it before it reached meltdown because of Megatron's tampering. Dirge and his trine though kept them well at bay.

All in all, it seemed like a good day for the Decepticons.

Crushing the fist that came flying for him suddenly, Soundwave tossed Cliffjumper back into the melee, leaving the rest of the minibot for Buzzsaw to eviscerate.

A silent message from Lazerbeak, surveying the battle from above, drew the telepath's attention. He opened the channel between himself and his symbiont, listening as the casseticon relayed his message. The small mech's words brought a sinister smile to Soundwave's lip components -Tracks was here. "Order: give coordinates," he demanded, already turning his helm in the direction that Lazerbeak was.

The bird-like symbiont uploaded the corvette's location to the communications officer's GPS immediately. Soundwave was pleased to find that Tracks was not that far away from him. Quickly, he ejected Ravage, instructing the feline to ambush the Autobot and drag him out of sight. The blue mech assured he would be along shortly to take care of the rest. Nodding his helm, Ravage bounded off into the fray, homing in on the unsuspecting Tracks. Making sure that no one was watching, Soundwave slipped away from the fighting, taking cover behind a small, rocky hillside. He again lifted a finger to his shoulder plating, pressing down on the eject button. Three more casseticons flew from his chest compartment, unfolding to show themselves as Rumble, Frenzy and the newly repaired Ratbat.

"Mission: distract the Autobots. Keep all away from this location." Soundwave transferred Lazerbeak's coordinates to each of them in turn. "Fact: must not be disturbed under any circumstances. Inquiry: Is that understood?"

The twins nodded their helms, and even little Ratbat squeaked softly in confirmation. Pleased with their obedience, Soundwave turned and glanced around the hill to the battle still going strong. "Go," he commanded.

Rumble and Frenzy tore off into the fray, cackling wickedly at the chance to wreak some havoc; the purple symbiont flying off to slam into whichever Autobot was closest. No longer concerned about what his creations were doing, the communications officer turned and hurried along behind the hill, circling the battle and quickly closing in on Tracks. His visor flashed with his impeding victory and he couldn't help the cold chuckle that escaped him.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks fired and unable to squash the cold relief that came when he saw Deadend fall backwards at his shot. The stunticon attempted to stand up, but was trampled to the floor again as Sideswipe and Skywarp went rolling over him. Taking the chance open to him, the corvette hurried to get away from the edge of the battlefield. He didn't like how easy of a target it made him, and though he didn't want to be dead center in the fray either, he preferred it over the emptiness surrounding his flanks. Gun raised readily, Tracks was slowly moving himself around the reactor, his optics fixed on Optimus and Megatron fighting in the core of the madness. He was so focused in trying to remain out of his own helm, that he didn't notice Ravage sneaking up on him until it was too late.

The feline pounced, ramming into his backstruts, sending the Autobot crashing face first into the torn up ground. Spluttering in bewilderment, Tracks hurried to push himself up, whipping his helm behind him in fright. He never got the chance to even scream before Ravage attacked again, the casseticon's fangs piercing his neck cables and severing the power lines to his vocalizer. Flailing in panic, the corvette managed to somehow throw the beast off, servos trembling as he shot off random, crazy shots. Each of them missed, and enraged to be shot at, Ravage retreated a safe distance before using his rocket boosters to propel himself forward quickly, smacking the Autobot's weapon away with a paw. Growling still, Ravage rammed into Tracks' middle, driving the corvette back to the ground.

Uselessly, Tracks tried to scream for help. In his terror, he had all but forgotten about his comm link, too focused on the snapping canines attempting to slip past his swinging arms to his face beneath. Ravage refused to back down though. He scratched and clawed viciously at the Autobot, eventually growing annoyed that he could not reach the multi-coloured mech's vitals and settling for his arm. Tracks screamed silently as the strong jaw clamped onto his forearm, crunching down on the limb and cracking the armour. Energon poured onto the ground from the new wound, staining the dirt a dark purple. Red optics flashing in triumph, the casseticon turned slightly, using his hind paws to kick the corvette upside the helm. The unexpected assault jostled Tracks, who went limp as his gears were sent rattling. Taking the opportunity granted to him, Ravage quickly began dragging the larger mech away from the others still fighting, to the hillside where his master waited almost impatiently for his arrival.

"Status: excellent work Ravage," Soundwave said when both symbiont and Autobot were within reach. He bent to one knee, sparing a moment to stroke his faithful casseticon atop his helm. Ravage almost purred at the gracious touch from his master, sending his report of Tracks' capture through a private comm link. The communications officer listened with only half an audio, his gaze fixed wholly on the corvette lying dazedly before him on the rocky floor.

Oh, he couldn't wait to have the winged mech's full attention...

"Report: acknowledged. Order: return to battle with others Ravage. Mission: keep others away from us."

The metallic feline glanced up at the Decepticon curiously but simply growled obediently at the command, already skulking up the hillside; prepared to jump on any hapless fools below. What his master wanted with the Autobot, Ravage would perhaps never know, but he would not be so foolish as to question or impede on Soundwave's plans.

Waiting until even his most trusted symbiont was gone, Soundwave moved so that he now stood at Tracks' pedes. He lowered himself to the ground slowly, limbs tensing with anticipation and desire making his circuits crackle. The blue mech had a hard time containing the laughter that arose when he saw horrified recognition flare in those blue optics as the Autobot finally came out of his daze. His servo lashed forward, clenching about Tracks' mouth and forcing him further into the dirt at the same instant that the corvette tried to shoot up. Engine choking, since he could make no sound himself, the multi-coloured mech writhed desperately beneath Soundwave, clawing at the communications officer's arms, hoping to get him off.

The Decepticon was amused by the futile effort.

His amusement quickly died though, as he remembered just exactly why he was abandoning his leader in the middle of a battle to pursue personal endeavours. "You...," he hissed, pressing down harder on Tracks. Soundwave quickly straddled the corvette, his free servo wrapping around bruised neck cables. "Inquiry: did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think that they could make you forget?!"

Tracks optics flared brightly in confusion and fright. But there was a hint of understanding just in the corner there. The Autobot knew just what the telepath was referring to...

"Fact: you shall _never_ escape me!," Soundwave growled, tightening his grip. He didn't pay any mind to the pain reflected in those red faceplates, or the way Tracks arched upwards in agony. "Status: will always be watching you, seeing everything you do -everyone you frag! You will never be far from my grasp!"

His anger and lust were as one now. The communications officer released his hold on Tracks' throat, reaching down between their two frames and grasping around the creases in the corvette's codpiece. With one deft twist, he'd pried the plating back, revealing the other mech's valve to the atmosphere. His captive began his thrashing anew, coolant pooling in his optics and spilling down his cheekplates as he bucked and writhed under Soundwave.

This meant little to the Decepticon though. He ignored the blunt fingertips digging into his armour, trying to get under the seams in his arms, retracting his codpiece and letting his spike pressurize. Rage still clouded his spark, to the point that he simply wanted to choke Tracks for even daring to sleep around with other Autobots, but he had waited so long to have a moment like this with the corvette that he relished their connecting. Keeping his hold on the multi-coloured mech's face, the tapedeck shifted, sliding easily into the open valve. He grunted, feeling the cables tighten around his spike, lubricants pouring from the inner walls and slicking his entrance more.

Oh, Primus, it was perfect.

Soundwave growled in satisfaction, grinding slowly, increasing his pace little by little. Tracks had almost grown complacent underneath him. His fingers still clawed at the arm pinning the Autobot to the ground, but he had stopped his wild bucking; stiffening in shame as the communications officer rocked inside of him. Grudging pleasure echoed in the corvette's helm, something that Tracks quickly tried to distance himself from, fleeing deeper inside his thoughts and away from the events currently happening. Soundwave's grip tightened reflexively.

He would not allow Tracks to simply displace this entire moment!

The telepath chased the corvette into the depths of his processor, hot, irrepressible rage increasing his momentum. How much angrier was he to find that the Autobot was escaping him to wallow in other memories of interfacing with his crewmates! Soundwave threw himself into a crazed pace, slamming harshly into Tracks, determined to blot all others from the winged mech's processor. The corvette tried to flee still, but the tapedeck was giving him no clemency. He tore at Tracks' pitiful blockades like they were wet paper, cracking the memories the Autobot was desperate to hide within. Eventually, there was nowhere for the other mech to escape even inside his own processor, and Tracks was laid open before Soundwave -wholly and horribly aware of everything happening to him at that very moment.

Wickedly delighted, the Decepticon continued his driving thrusts, intakes hitching as he suddenly overloaded; his systems purring in satisfaction. Hot lubricants burst around his spike, trickling out from the spaces between their conjoined frames, signalling Tracks own overload. He felt the Autobot curl into a tight ball within his helm, lost behind a curtain of black that quickly came and swallowed up the winged mech. On the outside though, Tracks slowly slackened in his hold, dropping his arms to the floor and shuttering his optics from Soundwave's sight.

The reaction was an acceptable one for the time being, the communications officer deigned.

He finally lifted his servo from the corvette's face, ignoring the slickness of his palm from where the Autobot's tears had splashed. His unfaltering gaze took in the dented plating of Tracks' cheekplates as he pulled out, gaze falling lower and taking in the rest of the damage currently on the multi-coloured mech's frame. A damaged, chewed arm courtesy of Ravage; dirty and dinged paintjob, bent codpiece... That would have to be fixed. Carelessly, Soundwave pulled out, covering himself first before reaching for the corvette's own pelvic plating. He grabbed the misaligned metal, and with a sharp, painful twist, snapped it back into his proper place; sliding it over Tracks' valve and hiding it once more.

Now, no one would know that anything of significance had happened within this vicinity. But it wasn't enough, not yet.

Soundwave rose, his servo reaching for his blaster in subspace. He was drawing it out, right when Megatron bellowed across the entire field, calling for the inevitable retreat. Cursing silently, the telepath turned to look at Tracks, still lying almost lifeless on the ground. If he wasted time trying to set the situation... then others would notice his apparent absence from the battle. Megatron might even inquire himself exactly where the communications officer had been during the fight.

"Designation: Buzzsaw," Soundwave called, turning away from the Autobot and jumping into the sky, heading for the Decepticon tyrant and his gathering soldiers. "Order: make Autobot Tracks' absence appear battle-made. Warning: do not kill him. Complete quickly and return to base via stealth."

An answering crow echoed in the tapedeck's mind, before he felt his blood-thirsty symbiont lunge for the unresponsive Tracks.

**xxXxXxx**

The whirr and muted clanking of machines was the prelude to his waking. Onlining his optics slowly, Tracks was blinded for a moment by the bright light shining immediately down into his vision. The pixels scattered, hurriedly re-orientating themselves. His audios turned on next, just as the corvette was beginning to recognize seams and ceiling lights of the ceiling above him.

He was in the medbay.

"I-i... I think he's awake!"

"About time..."

His neck cables ached as he turned his helm, his gaze falling on the mech sitting by his bedside; a flare of surprise and unease passed through his spark. Blaster smiled softly at him, leaning in closer. "Hey... how you feeling?," he asked.

"He's feeling like slag. Why don't you leave and let him rest?!," Ratchet piped up from the back of the medbay. The communications officer glanced up at the ceiling, cycling an intake wearily.

"Just give me a couple more kliks, please, Ratchet. I really need to speak to Tracks at the moment." The medic stopped what he was doing, grumbling further.

"Fine -but be quick about it! I'll be in the control room, speaking to Optimus." With that said, Ratchet made his way to the medbay doors, silently heading out of the room. Tracks didn't even waste the energy to try and watch the ambulance leave; his optics remained resolutely glued to a spot on the walls behind Blaster's helm. When they were alone, the red mech turned to the Autobot lying on the berth.

"You worried a bunch of us, mech," Blaster started, "Bumblebee spotted Buzzsaw going crazy just behind the plant. We found you in the worst shape; Ratchet would have torn that bird-brain apart if he could have gotten his servos on him. Unfortunately, Buzzsaw is probably safely back with his slagging master in the Nemesis."

He remembered that, faintly. The pieces of his memory banks replayed the last few kliks of the aftermath following Soundwave's assault, the piercing agony of Buzzsaw's claws digging into his armour; that primus-forsaken beak snipping under the metal and cutting away at the wires beneath. Pain echoed in every circuit, burning up his sensory net like the flames of a thousand suns, energon clogging his intakes as his life energy was splashed all over the place. He couldn't tell if the pain rivaled anything that Soundwave had done to him personally or not...

Tracks came back to reality to find a servo stroking the crest on his helm comfortingly. Blaster stopped, pulling his servo back, smiling sheepishly at the corvette. "Sorry...," he mumbled. "I, uh, I wanted to talk to you after the battle, but I think it might be better if I waited."

The other mech's optics shuttered slowly.

Why was Blaster he here, he wondered faintly. Tracks wasn't sure if he actually wanted to know the answer or not.

The communications officer chuckled self-consciously at the continued silence of his companion, shifting in his seat. "Or maybe not," he said. Anxiously, Blaster reached forward, slipping his servo around the one lying close to him. He gave the corvette's fingers a gentle squeeze, before letting his thumb fall into a soft, stroking motion. "Listen, Tracks, I know this isn't the greatest of times but..."

The red Autobot trailed off, biting his lip components as he debated with himself for an astrosecond. Apparently, he managed to gather any courage necessary because he was plodding on not too long after. Tracks though felt fear seize his spark. He watched as Blaster tittered about nervously, his processor reeling at the implications. Horror was dawning on the multi-coloured mech as everything clicked -Blaster's constant need for Tracks' attention, his butting into the corvette's privacy, his willingness to do anything to please the other 'bot. It was making Tracks' fuel tanks roil sickly.

_'Please,'_ he begged to Primus above, _'Don't let him say it. Anything, anything else but that!'_ Shifting, the winged Autobot attempted to move, wanting to run from this situation. But he was still weak, his system's self-repairs working double-time, assisted by the medbay's machines he was currently hooked up to. He would not be running anywhere anytime soon.

Blaster didn't seem to notice a thing. "I," the communications officer continued, locking gazes with the other Autobot. His gaze was sure and strong, stabbing the corvette deeply in his spark at the emotion he glimpsed in those dazzling baby blue orbs, "I love you, Tracks, and I would like to spend my life with you. If you'll have me."

_'No...,'_ whimpered the voice inside him. All of reality flipped on Tracks and he found colour draining away again. He wanted to curl into himself and never unfold.

In the middle of it all, his servo was like ice, cradled between the two palms of the one who had confessed.


	6. Hush Hush

**Suggested listening: Voices Carry- 'Til Tuesday**

**Chapter 6: Hush Hush**

Hot air brushed across his plating as the mech above him released a heavy vent; the shadow of a groan following the exhale. Shivering, Breakdown held in the last of his mewl, valve walls clenching tightly about the spike still buried within him, before relaxing against the slick heat filling his passage, allowing his partner to pull back. Soundwave did so without a word, wiping a spare rag along his spike before tucking it out of the way and cleaning away the rest of the mess. The lamborghini onlined his optics again just in time to see the communications officer toss that same clothe to the berth; turning and crossing the room to his terminal.

For a painful moment, Breakdown didn't know what to do.

He sat up slowly, trying to keep his real emotions from appearing on his face. This had been the seventh time that they'd secretly met like this... Every moment was wonderful to the stunticon, and he did not have a word of complaint about that. But each and every time, as soon as they had finished fragging, Soundwave would get up and go back to his console. It was as if the blue mech valued his work more than his fellow soldier.

Would it really be so bad for the communications officer to lie in bed with him a little longer after their interfacing?

Breakdown quickly subdued the thought. The tight, constricting pressure though that he felt in his chassis wouldn't go away, and slowly the lamborghini shuffled off of the bed, cleaning himself up and heading for the door. He made the mistake of looking back over his shoulder plating, only to see that Soundwave was fixed firmly to his screen; not giving the other Decepticon even the smallest of his attention. Helm bowed lowly, Breakdown slipped out of the room quietly.

**xxXxXxx**

Every morning was like a song to Jazz. He slid out of bed fluidly, a melody on his lip components; shaking his hips slightly as he headed for the washracks, making sure to give a little more sway when he passed by Prowl's office. Nothing was out of the ordinary for the saboteur when he noticed Blaster walking into the rec room that morning, just a little quieter and subdued than what was usual for the boombox. Grabbing an extra cube for his friend, Jazz skipped across the room, slipping an arm around the other mech's shoulder plating.

"What's up, Blast'r!," he chirped in cheery greeting. Blaster shuttered his optics at the unexpected confrontation, shrinking a little in the spy's hold.

"U-umm, hey Jazz," he smiled back, a little uncertainly. Jazz noticed it right away.

Grabbing firmer hold of the red mech's shoulder plating, the saboteur steered his friend away from the rest of the morning crowd, finding themselves a private corner to talk. He fell into a chair easily, gesturing for the other to also take a seat. Once Blaster had complied, Jazz slid him his morning ration. "So, I'm guessin' this has somethang t' do wit' Tracks, hmm?," the Special Ops officer started.

Blaster sighed softly, sipping at his cube before admitting the inevitable. Jazz always had a way to see through a mech. "Yeah, brother," he replied softly. "I, u-uh, umm, t-told... you know..." He trailed off, blushing slightly.

"Ya finally confessed," Jazz grinned. "I'd say congratulations are in ord'r, but if that were the case, you'd be jubilant my dear friend, not so mellow. Would this be 'cause of his injuries?"

"Well, I don't know... I guess." Blaster sighed again, shaking his helm. "You know, maybe I sprung this on him too soon. I mean, he just woke up from extensive repairs, and Ratchet says it'll take a little while for his hard drive to defrag properly. But seeing him so damaged like that because of that fragging pidgeon... I-i, I didn't want to lose the chance to say anything to him, Jazz. You understand that, right?"

Blue optics peered at him pleadingly, almost afraid that his actions would be stated as wrong. But the saboteur couldn't fault the boombox even the smallest of his choices, knowing that in a situation as precarious as theirs that unspoken feelings could create the largest of wounds if the chance was lost forever. Seeing that his comrade needed comfort, Jazz inched his chair closer to the other mech, patting his shoulder plating. "Listen, mech. I don't think anythin' o' what you've done was wrong, but Ratchet is right t'. Tracks needs a lil' time t' heal an' maybe then he'll give ya an answer," he told Blaster.

"Rememb'r though," Jazz was quick to point out. "Tracks has always been a lil' o' the loner-type as well. I'm sure he's gotten his spark-broken before o' the like, which might be part o' the reason why he's so hesitant t' respond to your confession. The best thing I can advise is t' jus' show him that ya honestly care for him -but in the lil' ways, ya know? We don't wantcha t' smoth'r the mech an' accidentally chase him off."

The Special Ops officer couldn't help the small chuckle that rose as he saw Blaster's expression change from one of rapt attentiveness to mild panic. The other Autobot grabbed his helm in horror, optics flaring brightly as his processor ran off with the notion. "Oh no! What if I do scare him off Jazz? What if I make him hate me so much that he does run away!?," Blaster quaked, turning to Jazz and grabbing his friend by his shoulder plating. "What if-!"

"Blast'r!," Jazz quickly intervened. "Mech, please. Stop shakin' me for a klik why dontcha an' I'll try t' answer your questions!"

Cheekplates tinged with his embarrassment, the communications officer quickly retracted his servos. Jazz took a moment to get the static out of his view before continuing. "Now, 'freaking out', as the humans say, is not gonna do ya any good, my mech. Ya need t' jus' chill a lil' an' be yourself. A 'bot would have t' be crazy not t' like ya, an' 'sides, ya an' Tracks have always gotten along a'right before, rememb'r?"

"Oh, right...," Blaster mumbled.

The saboteur spared his friend a bemused glance, before swirling the last bits of his cube. "A'right, well now that we've dealt wit' the confidence issue there; tell me: what kind o' things are ya plannin' t' do for Tracks?," Jazz asked, curious to know how Blaster would go about courting a mech.

"W-well, ummm...," the boombox started hesitantly.

The black and white mech's smile fell. "Tell me ya at least have somethin' in mind."

Blaster's blush deepened. "Well, it's not like I've given it all that much thought! I mean," he hastily added, seeing the dry look Jazz was now giving him, "I had always thought I would have confessed to Tracks in a more, you know... romantic setting. Not in the middle of medbay, after a battle. So, I'm a little turned around at the moment."

"But," the red mech added, a brilliant smile coming to his lip components, "Ratchet has asked that I keep an optic on Tracks for the next little while, just to make sure that everything is alright and that he doesn't aggravate his injuries."

"Ah," the Special Ops officer grinned back, "That'll mean a fair amount o' alone time togeth'r." Blaster bowed his helm a little, confirming that the boombox had the same thoughts. Jazz really couldn't help the chuckle this time. "Well, I know ya won't waste a single moment o' this golden opportunity. Now, let's talk 'wooing'..."

The two Autobots leaned towards each other, settling into an intense conversation.

**xxXxXxx**

It took nearly all of his effort to push himself upwards. Tracks balanced on the edge of his berth, staring at his pedes as his systems slowly booted, still sore and sensitive from the damage he had suffered under Buzzsaw's vicious attack. The thought of him "in pain" was a strange concept to the corvette though, who was still just trying to process the change of events that had occurred in the last couple of days.

Thirty eight hours, twenty-three minutes and twelve seconds spent in the medbay, inspected and catalogued studiously by their over-bearing and usually temperamental medic. Due to the veil of numbness Tracks had been lost under since Blaster's confession, he had not felt any panic or fear during Ratchet's invasive scans. Everything that had bothered him before, everything that had been a concern or a torture... it meant nothing to the winged Autobot. Even in his indifference, he barely noticed the silence that encompassed him. The reflection in his cracked mirror was a muted shadow of himself; the voice and spectre that usually haunted him could not be found at this moment.

An energetic knock at his door drew Tracks' from his distracted staring. He turned his helm just in time to see his door slide open, Blaster appearing on the other side. "Hey, Tracks," the boombox greeted, trying to soften the grin spread across his cheekplates. It could not take away from the joyful twinkle visible in his optics.

"I brought you some energon -low-grade, for safety sake's." Blaster entered into the room, letting the door close behind him. It took the corvette almost a klik to realize that the communications officer had his door pin, no doubt thanks to Ratchet. That medic could be awfully audacious.

By the time the multi-coloured mech had pulled himself out of his helm again, it was to be met with a cube being held out to him uncertainly, Blaster looking down at him anxiously. "H-how... how are you holding up this orn?," he asked, sitting down beside Tracks after the other had taken the cube offered to him.

"I-i, I know, I'm probably not the greatest company at the moment," the red mech started to ramble as the silence stretched on. He tried to avoid looking at Tracks while he sipped slowly at his ration, but was unable to stop the frequent glances. "Ra-ratchet wanted me to k-keep an optic out for you, and just make sure that you were taking proper care of yourself. So I thought we could catch up on that chill time we talked about before, just do some r-reading or watch some vid-files. I e-even got some easy listening music if you just w-wanted to sit back and e-enjoy those."

Blaster trailed off, not knowing what else to say. When he looked up again, he saw that the corvette was staring back at him, cube held on his lap. Tracks still did not speak, but the communications officer thought that he could hear the echo of an agreement in the other Autobot's aura. Eager for confirmation though, he pressed again. "W-would... would that be alright?," Blaster asked.

A small, heavy nod met his question. Not noticing its reluctance, the boombox grinned brightly again, humming something softly under his intakes as Tracks returned to his cube.

**xxXxXxx**

A quick, frightened rap echoed through the dark hallways. It circled through the empty corridors and silent passages of the Nemesis, cycling back to the one that had first made the noise, making the mech cringe fearfully. Anxiously, Breakdown looked over is shoulder plating again, but seeing no one after a breem, he gathered the dismal scraps of his courage and turned back to the door he stood before.

"S-soundwave...?," he whispered, not wanting to speak any louder than necessary.

His servo was curled tightly into a fist, his knuckles grazing the metal as he hovered between the urge to knock again and the terror immobilizing him. The stunticon understood that it was that time of orn the humans preferred to call the 'Dead Hour', and that many of his comrades were using these spare, few cycles to get some recharge before they were forced from their rooms again for duty, but the absence of the other Decepticons' presence did not comfort Breakdown. In fact, it increased his anxiety, who had to avidly ignore the security camera he knew was set at the other end of the hall; praying that he was tucked out of sight enough that the mech watching the monitors this night would not be able to see him.

If he made any more noise though, the lamborghini wouldn't have to worry about the cameras.

"...Soundwave?," he hissed, tapping at the door as softly as he dared, still flinching when it sounded louder than he had wanted. "A-are... are you th-there?"

There was no answer. Again.

Breakdown pressed his palm flat to the door as he shuffled closer, audio held close to the metal. He stilled his nervous venting, blocking out the sounds of his own systems working away, and the suffocating silence of the ship around him, trying to simply listen. It lasted about a klik before his paranoia rose up on him again, instigated from the glimmer of light he could see of the security camera down the hall.

If the communications officer found out that the stunticon had been caught outside of his room, he would not be pleased. Fingers twitching, the white mech hurriedly pulled back from the door. He didn't want to be seen by anyone in a compromising position, and besides, he had not heard anything from within Soundwave's quarters. Not even the tell-tale sound of his numerous casseticons.

Maybe the other Decepticon was in the control room? It was late, but it was not unusual for the TIC to be out and about the ship while others recharged. He had many duties to perform, on top of being the one to usually spear-head Megatron's diabolical plans and spying on the rest of the crew. Or so Breakdown had heard.

It would make sense then why he had been unable to see the telepath in the past few orns, but the lamborghini couldn't help the anxiety he carried within him. Soundwave never went more than a couple orns without calling for him again, and Breakdown was always eager to sneak to the communications officer's chambers once it was all clear. So what if their relationship had to be kept a secret? It was still his, and the stunticon was not about to let it slip out of his servos.

But...

His processor began to race. What if someone had seen him coming out of Soundwave's room one night? O-or, maybe his incompetence had left his bond open during one of the blue mech's calls! The possibilities were endless and it took all of his effort not to start hyperventilating. Breakdown took a couple more pede-steps away from Soundwave's door as assurance, sensors wary of the camera at his back struts.

"N-no...," he mumbled to himself lowly. "S-soundwave, he -he'd have s-said something i-if that was the case. H-he w-wants to be with me, he's j-just busy, th-that's all. I'm s-sure Lord M-megatron has a new plan in work t-that Soundwave h-has to collect data f-for."

Besides, if he had really made some giant error as leaving his bond wide open for his brothers to pick up on, certainly someone would have approached the lamborghini about it by now. Motormaster especially would not approve of Breakdown affiliating himself with the tapedeck. Breakdown shivered at the thought.

His brother's punishments were the worst.

So, yes, the stunticon assured himself shakily. Soundwave was just busy and currently out at the moment, and he'd been much too preoccupied recently with new battle plans and the like to forget to comm Breakdown and tell him so. Soon, he'd get the free time again to call for the white mech and then Breakdown would hurry for the communications officer's room, where he'd greet his lover with hungry kisses; opening his arms and his thighs, wrapping himself tightly up in Soundwave's embrace and-

Breakdown froze, ripped from his thoughts as his proximity alarm went off. Dead End was coming around the corner! Terror and paranoia clawed its way through the lamborghini's systems, taking him astroseconds to react, wisely stepping further away from Soundwave's door and down the opposite end of the hall. It was too late of an action though, because he could feel his brother pressing against his processor; hear the sharp, lethargic pede-falls of the fatalist as he entered into the same corridor as the other stunticon.

"Breakdown?," Dead End called softly in surprise.

The white mech cringed, slowed to a stop, hesitantly looking back at the porsche. The other's visor flickered as he looked back at him, the presence of Dead End within his spark increasing as the maroon Decepticon attempted to garner more information from their bond. Breakdown hastened to strengthen his firewalls; huddling behind them even as he tried to appear indifferent to the other stunticon. "Yes? Did you want something Dead End?"

Dead End was quiet for an astrosecond, pulling away from the bond. The lamborghini used the moment to throw up more blocks. "No," the fatalist eventually answered. "I was only coming back from the control room. Pointless for me to be watching empty halls when nothing is going to happen and nothing ever will. But it is unlikely that Megatron shall heed my words about the futility of this entire thing..."

Breakdown could only nod to the other mech's depressive muttering. He moved his pede backwards an inch, wondering when the porsche would leave, or if he'd have to be the first to walk away. He avidly avoided glancing towards Soundwave's door.

The maroon Decepticon caught the small motion, tapering off in his unhindered mumbling. His visor flared as he caught the lamborghini's optics; his presence once more brushing along Breakdown's protected spark. "I am surprised to see you awake and about though, Breakdown. I thought for sure you would be adhering to Motormaster's demands of proper recharge," Dead End commented. Unsaid was the question of why the glitchy mech was up at this hour, and why he was skulking through private hallways of superior officers.

Tensing, Breakdown was quick to jump into defensive mode, spurred on by desperateness. Soundwave would be not be pleased... "I-i just couldn't recharge," he replied, cursing himself silently for stumbling over his words in the beginning. "I thought I would take a minder in the meantime."

"It's 'meander'," the darker stunticon corrected automatically.

"Stop correcting me!," the lamborghini screeched, his whole frame convulsing in violent spasms as he shuffled back a couple more paces. He hated it when Dead End did that! The porsche always thought he was so much better than Breakdown, what with his glossy frame and his cool disposition to everything; knowing all those big words and not being some useless, glitching piece of scrap that was as helpful as a case of cosmic rust on the giant Menasor. That's why they failed all the time, why Megatron glared at him with his dark, energon-lusting optics, wanting to bash apart his chassis, reach inside and tear out his-

Dead End quickly turned his gaze to the side. The white Decepticon's sensors crackled as he felt the penetrating gaze finally leave, a phantasmal weight lifting off of his chassis, allowing his vents to cycle heavily. The sensation -of being watched, studied, ripped apart- was still there though, gnawing at the back of his helm constantly, stirring up his fear and anger again.

"You have been acting very odd lately," the porsche said. "Avoiding us, would be a better term. Just what have you been doing, Breakdown?"

"N-nothing!," he snapped, back-pedaling further. He glared at the other stunticon, resisting the urge to curl forwards and hug himself. That was weakness. Motormaster had told him explicitly on numerous occasions to never show weakness.

...what would Soundwave think of him if he was weak...?

"An-anyways," Breakdown continued, cutting off Dead End's next sentence, before he could even speak, "I-i-i was just g-going back to my room. G-goodbye." Turning, the lamborghini fled down the rest of the hall, speeding around the corners as he ducked his helm low. It was obvious he was trying to placate himself in some manner, no doubt in response to the security cameras that he was now in plain sight of.

The maroon stunticon watched as his gestalt brother scurried away; red visor glancing to Soundwave's door once he was alone. He stared at the metal silently for about a klik, before he slowly followed after Breakdown's trail, back to his quarters situated closer to the bottom of the ship along with the others.

**xxXxXxx**

He must have really been losing it.

"Come on Tracks... It's beautiful outside today. How about we go for a walk? Just around the base?"

If he wasn't, there was no way to explain why he allowed Blaster to grab his servo, gently leading him out of his dark and safe room, into the rest of the ship. "B-blaster...," Tracks began quietly. His wings twitched anxiously, the large open space all around him proving to be too much. Once, there might have been a time when he relished the chance to spread his wings fully, letting them flitter and flutter gaily in the air, but now, all the corvette wanted to do was hide back in his room; tucked away from all the others, so they could not see his cracks and chips as his sanity slipped through his grasping servos.

Yet, he could not find the strength to tear himself away from this imposing mech.

Taking notice of his discomfort, Blaster moved in closer, setting a servo lightly upon one of the other's shoulder tires. His smile was nervous itself, showing that he would withdraw at the faintest sign of rejection from Tracks. "It's alright, Tracks," the communications officer started kindly. "I'll be by your side the entire way and we won't be out of range of Red Alert's cameras, so if any trouble does show up we'll be able to handle it."

That wasn't the issue, Tracks thought. He tried not to pay attention to the warmth radiating from that servo, but it drew all of his attention, making it hard to draw up any of his previous bitterness. The fear though was still there, and twice as strong with this added incentive. "Blaster...I-i-i...I'm n-not sure...," his vocalizer clicked off part way through his protest, leaving him hanging uselessly.

The red mech took his words to mean something else. "It'll be fine," he replied, giving the servo he still held a comforting squeeze. "Trust me."

Trust! Tracks bewailed silently at the word, folding into himself. How could he have any more faith in that word? Trust had led him to believe that this war might end, that his spark would be spared from the slaughter if it had nothing to mourn but the falling of comrades in battle. Trust had been something he put all his strength into, before the bombs dropped on Iacon, destroying everything within miles. Trust was what told him to hang onto what little shreds of hope he still had, because they would make everything okay.

But it was all lies! There was nothing to believe in, nothing safe to fall back onto anymore. Hope was delusions of the too far gone, and no mech was an ally -not even himself. No, it was worse, the corvette knew. He was his greatest enemy, and Soundwave knew that. That's why the Decepticon had tortured him so; wanting to see him squirm and cry as all of his defenses were shredded apart, leaving him alone to the demon festering in his spark. The one that force-fed him all those dark things he kept so well hidden before... fear, doubts, hatred, paranoia... The fruits of his sin that poisoned him every moment the roots grew a little deeper in his spark. And grow, the winged mech knew they did.

Tracks hated that vile word so much...

"Tracks... Tracks, look at me." Blaster's voice, so calm, so soothing, cut through the shadows surrounding his helm, pulling the unwilling Autobot away from his thoughts. The corvette onlined his optics to find himself leaning heavily against the wall, servos grasping the boombox's forearms tightly as his intakes cycled in sharp, heavy bursts. He could almost even hear his plating clattering in his audios.

"Tracks...," Blaster called again, ducking a little so his face was within the other's sight. His optics were bright with concern. "Hey... are you okay? Do you want to go back to your room?"

It seemed to take all of his strength to look back down the hall. A shiver passed down his back struts, and the multi-coloured mech shook his helm. There was no way he could go back to his room now; he could feel those nightmares lying in wait now, sharpening their fangs and their daggers for when Tracks returned. Because, he always had to return... didn't he?

"I-i'm fine," the corvette spoke through a wad of static, pushing himself away from the wall and hurrying to release Blaster. He needed distance between them, however small that may be. "L-let's go..."

"But, Tracks, you...," the communications officer trailed off uncertainly as the other Autobot looked back at him blankly. Forcing a smile to his face, he nodded his helm, reaching forward and grabbing Tracks' dangling servo. Joy showed in his optics for real this time as the corvette allowed him this moment, relishing the warm of the palm pressed into his own and the clean smell of the chassis next to him.

He missed the cringe Tracks made, or the way his optics dimmed down to almost black.

**xxXxXxx**

It was dark, it was cool...

His symbionts skittered behind him tensely.

The sound drew him up and out of his trance, sparking his ire. At the rising anger they felt from their master, the casseticons quickly settled down again; quieting themselves and their fearful thoughts. Even though they were hungry and bored and anxious from spending long hours trapped within the communications officer's room, they would sit and be silent. After all, Soundwave had work to do, and they would not risk disturbing him, not even to refuel.

The consequences would be more than their little frames could bear.

Pleased with their obedience, Soundwave returned to his work; his visor glued to the monitor screens before him and the rapid motion of his fingers tapping away. Cycles and cycles he had spent, using all of his spare time huddled over his console.

It was almost finished.

He allowed himself to embrace the swell of victory he felt, optics quickly roving over the multitude of lines he had already typed, double-checking the coding for any mistakes. Everything was as it should be. Satisfied, his fingers went back to work; soon, he told himself, soon he'd have everything at hand.

And Tracks would be his completely then.

**xxXxXxx**

"Pretty car!"

Blaster had thought things were going pretty swell. He had managed to confess his feelings to Tracks, they were spending time together, he'd even gotten the chance to hold his servo... All positive signs that there was hope just yet for the boombox. Taking the corvette up to the mountain ridge was just an added bonus. After spending what must have been weeks in his room, Blaster had figured it was time for Tracks to get out for some fresh air; he'd even planned a small picnic for the two of them, somewhere quiet and romantic so the communications officer could proclaim his feelings for the other mech again.

He hadn't counted on running into the dinobots.

Or more specifically, one dumb brontosaurus. "Pretty car!," Sludge shouted excitedly, crashing out from the surrounding forest. Tracks flinched at Blaster's left, quickly shuffling backwards in terror as the boombox turned to face the dinobot.

"Hey, D-Sludge," Blaster greeted calmly, knowing how volatile the dinobots were. A simple turn of phrase or item could set them off into one of their legendary temper tantrums. "How's it hanging, my mech?"

Even for all his efforts though, the communications officer knew he was slagged when Sludge turned his attention on him; a snarl coming from that sharp-toothed mouth. With a twist of his large body, the dinobot knocked him clear to the side with his massive tail, the boombox smacking into the mountainside with a deafening thud. It must have been kliks before Blaster became aware of anything, his chassis dented and aching, and his visual pixels still streaking static across his optics. For a bewildering moment, the red mech didn't even know where he was.

"G-get away from me!," a shrill voice cried.

"Why pretty car keep going away," Sludge whined pathetically. "Sludge look hard for pretty car."

Slowly, Blaster forced himself up to his pedes, vision still flickering as he looked forward. He watched as Tracks back-pedaled all the way to the ridge's edge, faceplates twisted in terror as he looked up at the approaching dinobot. The brontosaurus though didn't seem to notice or care about the other Autobot's state; his optics brightly lit with excitement. Sludge took a step forward, and Tracks shuffled back another inch, balancing precariously over the precipice.

"P-please...," he pleaded tearfully, "Just l-leave me alone!"

Sludge ambled forward further, ignorant of the corvette's begging. Engine squealing in fright, the multi-coloured Autobot bolted on a dare, trying to streak past the dinobot's open flank and to safety. Sludge reciprocated in a speed shocking to any who had seen the brontosaurs move before, jumping from the edge where he had been tauntingly pinning Tracks back and after the fleeing mech. Tracks' scream was cut short when a large pede was slammed into his back struts, knocking him into the ground and keeping him trapped there.

"Pretty car always run," Sludge snarled in childish irritation, "Sludge say you stay! Sludge not let pretty car go."

Blaster had seen enough. "Get off of him, you over-sized lugnut!," he shouted, shaking off his remaining dizziness and charging for the dinobot. Sludge only spared him a faint glance, before he twisted again, his tail sweeping towards the boombox. Blaster managed to dodge it this time, thankfully, jumping back a little and out of range. He cursed silently, unable to get any closer. Dumb this mech might be, but Sludge was still a powerhouse to be reckoned with.

Seeing that the communications officer had avoided his attack, the brontosaurus hissed angrily, denta bared in warning. "You no bother Sludge. Or Sludge bash loud box," he threatened.

"I'm jamming your style, brother?," Blaster scowled back. The red mech spread his legs evenly, balancing himself as he ran through his systems, putting power output to the speakers set in his chestplates and legs, increasing the frequency to its maximum value. "Then why don't you try these tunes out!"

Music blared from the boombox, amplified between the rock walls, shaking the whole world around them. Sludge screeched at the vicious assault, tossing his helm about uselessly, screaming for the noise to stop. Underneath him, Tracks screamed, a wing trampled and twisted out of place from the dinobot's careless stomping. "You idiot!," Blaster yelled, charging again. This time he was met with no resistance, slamming into Sludge's chestplates and forcing the dinobot off and away from the corvette.

The brontosaurus twisted and hissed in the boombox's hold, even closer to the dreadful noise tearing his helm apart. "You get away from Sludge!," he roared, breaking out of the red Autobot's weak hold. Snarling, the larger mech turned on Blaster, slamming him into the floor and hissing aggressively.

"Sludge make bad noise stop," he growled lowly, mouth opening a little wider. Red light flashed from the back of the dinobot's throat, signalling the build-up of fire. The communications officer cursed, trying to scramble back before he could be melted by the intense flames, but a quick whap from Sludge's thick tail knocked him back down again; limbs stiffening as components were jarred out of rhythm for a moment.

"Mech, don't be crazy!," Blaster shouted, still attempting to move despite the obvious helplessness of the situation. "I'm your comrade, you prehistoric dolt -you don't just go stomping us down and burning us to scrap metal!"

Sludge merely snarled, opening his mouth wide again. This time, Blaster could actually see the tongues of fire at the corners of the dinobot's mouth. "Sludge, don't you dare-"

Gunfire interrupted the boombox from finishing his sentence; a streak of black laser fire zipping just over Blaster's helm and slamming dead center into Sludge's optics. The brontosaurus howled in confusion and pain, thrashing about wildly as he backed away from the red mech, optics unfocused and blotted out as near as Blaster could tell. Smacked again with the dinobot's wayward tail, the boombox was tossed a safe distance away from the rampaging mech; systems clicking in response as everything connected again in his chassis, allowing him to freely move once more. "T-tracks...?," he called softly, turning his helm and spotting the corvette.

Tracks still held his gun in between his two servos; faceplates slacken with horror and coolant pouring richly down his cheekplates. At the call of his name, he started, coming out of whatever terrified trance he had been caught in. "I-i-i-i...," he stuttered, trembling all over. Quickly, Blaster scrambled to his pedes, rushing for the other mech's side.

"Hey... hey, it's alright," the boombox tried to soothe, gently taking the gun out of the winged Autobot's shaking servos. Tracks sobbed pitifully, vocalizer skimming over disjointed apologies. "Come on, let's get you up," Blaster urged, subspacing the weapon and grasping the corvette carefully under his damaged wings. "On three, alright? One... two... three..."

With a grunt, the two rose to their pedes, Blaster sparing one last look over his shoulder plating to the still blinded Sludge, who was now pacing in place, keening weakly in distress. He felt Tracks do the same and his grip tightened on his partner when the other choked again. "Don't worry about him," the communications officer said soothingly into Tracks' audio. "He'll be fine for now. I'll inform Ratchet about what's happened, and he can deal with his stupid creation. Let's get you inside in the meantime."

"I-i-i'm... sorry... s-sorry...," the corvette mumbled incessantly as the red mech led them back down the mountain slowly.

There was no one there by the time they got to the entrance. Blaster could only assume that Jazz, no doubt already knowing about his friend's plans that afternoon, had cleared everyone away from the immediate area. Probably to give the new couple some privacy... on the off-chance something happened while they were out. Well, something did happen, the boombox thought bitterly, but not like anything he had been anticipating. Glad all the same for the lack of an audience, Blaster hurried to help Tracks hobble down one of the less used hallways; keeping an audio and optic out for any of the others.

"Tracks... I think we should stop and see Ratchet first."

Tracks shuttered his optics slowly, lifting his helm to look up at Blaster. It took astroseconds for what the red mech had said to make sense to the corvette's scrambled processor, and even then, the words made him cringe. "N-no...," he croaked. I don't want to tell anyone what happened, he finished within. No one was supposed to see that, especially not you.

The look of concern the boombox was giving him increased, and Tracks did his best not to flinch again. He wasn't regretful at all for what he had done to Sludge. If he hadn't acted as he did, the dinobot would have beaten Blaster to a pulp and then come back to finish what he had meant to start with the corvette. He would have just as easily and willingly shot the brontosaurus with a real bullet if it had come down to it. But, with the other there, to witness his pitiful moment of weakness...

Tracks thought he might purge.

"But your wing," Blaster protested. A servo reached up, hovering over the damaged metal anxiously. The multi-coloured mech eyed the limb nervously, torn between wanting to run away or press closer to the warmth he could feel radiating from the other. Tracks opted for shuffling away from the boombox.

Seeing the action, Blaster quickly dropped his servo back down to his side, holding back the sigh that wanted to escape. "If...," the communications officer started slowly, "If you don't feel up for it, then that's okay. How about a trip to the washracks then? To get cleaned up?"

The proposition was a valid one. The pain he could ignore for a while, but too many questions would be asked about his dirty and dinged frame. If he wanted to move about the Ark without fear of interrogation (because he knew Blaster would not let him hole himself up in his room for long) then he would need to take care of this as soon as possible. Tracks couldn't think of a reason to not do it now. Slowly, ignoring the voices whispering at the back of his helm, the corvette nodded, giving his confirmation to the other Autobot's suggestion.

It almost hurt when a bright smile was sent back in return.

"C'mon," Blaster said kindly, taking Tracks' servo into his own again. The winged mech let himself be led along again, trapped within a battle that had suddenly swept him away from reality.

Too many orns... too many orns had been spent under the watchful optic of Ratchet, and then, Blaster. Long, weary cycles that found him pacing back and forth within his own twisted refuse, clawing for freedom from the demons crowding his helm. And that's when things had been manageable. But there had been too much time between Tracks' last partner and now, and he could feel his chassis aching in certain areas; valve clenching painfully over thin air, frame burning for another's lustful touch, audios ringing to hear the sound of someone's passion made vocal. He needed the action of interfacing to quell the terror rising up within him, to beat and lock away that Decepticon's shadow for a little while longer. If he was filled, the corvette reasoned, then he would not be able to think or feel Soundwave for even a moment. He hungered for that sweet redemption too much, not knowing of anything else.

Blaster could give that to him.

No, Tracks thought, quickly tearing away from the idea. His needs would not be silenced though.

'How sweet it would be,' they pushed, sighing wantonly in his helm. _'_ He adores us, remember? Practically worships us. He would not need be hoodwinked or inebriated; he would take us wholly as he is right now. And he could fill us, again... and again... and again...'

He could feel his valve walls ooze lubricant at the very mention of it, bringing a tremble from the multi-coloured mech. The following shame could crush a spark.

"Tracks, are you cold? Here, let's get you under the spray." Gentle servos were guiding him forwards into a stall, warm water cascading down his frame. Gasping in surprise, Tracks shivered again, his wings fluttering painfully behind him. He had not even noticed when they had entered the room, or when Blaster had turned on the water in one of the stalls. The shock he felt at the turn of events was enough to silence his sinful wishes for the moment.

"That Sludge is too reckless to be let loose," the boombox was muttering behind him. "He should be fenced in somewhere until he learns some proper behaviour. He almost stomped you flat..." The corvette heard a bottle being opened before something warm and wet was sliding across his frame. He gasped as fingers dipped down and under his wings, sliding sensually between the joints and seams, drawing a needy moan from him. _Yes_ , his chassis screamed, fans whirling into life.

"B-blaster...!," the multi-coloured Autobot moaned again, crumpling to his knees. He stayed there, huddled on the stall floor, shuddering as hot water continued to spray down on his heated frame; splashing against his sensitive wings teasingly.

Take me, he wanted to beg. Oh, fill me to the point of breaking!

"T-tracks," Blaster stuttered. The poor mech held the rag in a servo tensely, optics brightly lit and cheekplates flushed with energon at the reaction he had drawn from his crush. He didn't think he could make the corvette moan from one of his clumsy touches. But his surprise, and his inappropriate thoughts, were quick to disappear when he noticed that Tracks was violently shaking -and it was not from desire.

"Tracks. Tracks, look at me, please?," the red Autobot requested, falling to his knees beside the other. The water splashed down on both of them now, running little rivulets down his optics... but it could not hide the tears he saw coming from Tracks' own optics. "Tracks," Blaster sighed softly, wrapping the corvette up into a tight hug, mindful of his injured wing. "It's alright. Everything's going to be fine."

_'No it won't!,'_ the winged mech screamed within his helm. He thrashed in the communications officer's hold, trying to break free, but he couldn't get out... he couldn't escape... _'Let me go! You have to let me go! Before I do something bad, before y-you get too cl-close a-and f-find out...'_

"...s-scared...," escaped the small, frightened whine. "P-please... j-just..."

Blaster pulled back a little, cupping Tracks' red cheekplates. How he'd always admired the colour of his face. "It's okay, Tracks, it's okay," he soothed, looking into the other's dim and saddened optics. His thumb stroked the warm metal tenderly as he slowly leaned in once more. "If nothing else, please believe in me. Never will I abandon you; never shall I hurt you. I promise."

Tracks only choked in reply, fingers digging into the boombox's seams.

There were too many nasty things inside of him still, too much sickness and rot...

But when those warm lip components pressed against his own -soft and gentle and loving- he found he could do nothing more then press back into the touch; melting in necessary purgative by this foolish Autobot's sweetest passions. Swept in and scorched by a sensation that the corvette had all but forgotten existed.

Desperately, like a dying mech, he latched onto this final lifeline; sinking his fingers in deep, determined to cling to this for as long as was possible...


	7. Wicked Game

**Suggested listening: Wicked Game- Chris Isaak**

**Chapter 7: Wicked Game**

Trees snapped like thunder, falling to the ground as their killer practically punched through them, running from the hunter coming after him. With a cry of alarm, his pede snagged on a small cropping of stone, knocking him to the floor with a heavy bang. It took him astroseconds to clear the static from his processor; astroseconds, that he realized with a panic, were suddenly lost to him. Engine rattling with his fright, the mech shoved himself back up onto his legs, tearing off into the never-ending jungle once again.

Always aware of the visor he could barely catch through the dark underbrush, like a bloody streak against the blackness.

**xxXxXxx**

**Several Days Before**

**xxXxXxx**

"Just what exactly happened now?," Ratchet sighed, coming out of his office. His processor was already working away, taking inventory of what he had in stock and what tools he may need. Meanwhile, he kept his optics fixed wholly on the dinobots before him, wary of their often sporadic and violent responses. Sludge only keened like a kicked puppy, pushing his snout under his heavy tail as he curled into a ball.

Swoop, who had chosen to switch into bipedal mode upon entering the Ark unlike his brother, hovered about the miserable mech; servos clawing at each other worriedly as he turned his attention to the CMO. "Momma 'bot," he clicked nervously, "Brother not right. What wrong with Sludge? Can you Momma help him?"

Ignoring the annoying title, Ratchet came closer, kneeling at the brontosaurus' side. "Well, I'll take a look," he told Swoop, before resting a gentle servo on Sludge's back. "Sludge. Sludge, would you look at me please?"

The dinobot whimpered again, shaking his helm and burying it further. The medic held in the sigh that wanted to escape him; refraining from pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor in exasperation. Clicking his vocalizer -the Cybertronian equivalent of a human clearing their throat- Ratchet put on a sweet smile, rubbing the plating of Sludge's back struts in a soothing manner. "C'mon, Sludge. Show momma your face, please?," he requested sweetly.

Sludge hesitated only an astrosecond, before lifting his helm and turning it the CMO.

"That's a good boy," Ratchet praised, still speaking in that gentle tone he had adopted. "Now, let's take a look and s- Sludge, your optics!" The medic grabbed the dinobot's cheekplates, yanking the brontosaurus' face the rest of the way towards him. He ignored the sad mewl it drew from the other mech, his own confused and horrified optics studying the damaged ones of Sludge's. Ratchet turned Sludge's helm this way and that, but no matter which angle he looked at it from, the dinobot's optics were still ruined: the blue glass cracked, the sensors beneath charred or crackling, forcing a cloud of darkness over the other's vision.

"Swoop find him up mountain. See brother stomping wildly and crying," the pterodactyl piped up, still wringing his servos in his anxiousness. "Sludge not make sense in what he Sludge doing. Swoop fly in closer, see that brother Sludge hurt."

Ratchet nodded distractedly at the information, too busy trying to cajole Sludge into transforming to bi-pedal mode, or at the very least to get up on a berth so the medic could operate on him. His fuel tanks still roiled -with growing rage and disbelief- as he forced a nearly blind dinobot into moving. "Who," he hissed under his intakes, "Who did this to you Sludge?"

The brontosaurus could offer him no answers though, only whimpering and keening weakly as he was led along. Swoop, ever the worry-wart, followed after their heels. "Swoop see nobody. Swoop think Sludge up mountain for long time. Brother Sludge not say who hurt him, Swoop thinks not know maybe," Swoop offered. "Momma can fix brother, yes?"

"I can," the CMO replied, vocalizer still rough with his anger, "It's just going to take some time. Swoop, you know where momma keeps the scalpels, yes? Can you bring them and the tray of tools sitting on the counter to me, please?"

He didn't catch the eager nod that Swoop sent him, but he could hear clearly as the pterodactyl flitted across the room; looking for the items that Ratchet had just mentioned. Pulling out his own medical kit that the ambulance kept in his subspace at all times, the CMO drew out a large syringe and filled it with a dark purple liquid from a smaller vial, that was also within the case. "It's alright, Sludge," he told the dinobot soothingly, stroking the brontosaurus' snout. "It's okay. Momma's going to take care of you now."

Sludge turned his helm toward Ratchet, seeking the smaller mech's comfort again as the medic tried to ease the needle's point between the plating in the brontosaurus' neck. The serum within the syringe wouldn't stop the pain, but it would slow down Sludge's movements, allowing the CMO a safe chance of getting at the the other's circuitry. From there, he could shut down Sludge's pain sensors, ensuring that he wouldn't hurt the larger Autobot when he started operating on his optics.

"Hush, Sludge, hush," Ratchet cooed to the dinobot, petting his snout again as skilled fingers pried back the plating behind his helm. Those ruby fingers dipped inside, feeling gently against the bundled circuits and paneling, until they came across the correct sensors in the grid; deactivating them without causing any harm to Sludge. "Hush, hush, baby. Momma's going to make everything better now." Sludge keened weakly, pressing into the medic's warm palm.

Ratchet tried to remain unaffected by the spark-tearing action, but it was a struggle. "Swoop!," he called over a shoulder, gritting his denta at the slight tremble in his vocalizer. "Swoop, where's my tools?"

"C-coming, Momma, just- ack!"

"Woah!"

At the squawk and following crash as sterile tools tumbled to the floor, the CMO turned, a frown once more fixed firmly on his faceplates. His ire decreased a couple notches as he saw just who had come into medbay. "Bumblebee... Swoop," he sighed, waving at the dinobot, "Please gather my tools and bring them here. I'll have to clean them quickly again before I can start. As for you, unless it's an emergency I'll ask that you please leave Bumblebee. I'm busy at the moment."

"Yeah... I can see that." The minibot tried not to frown at the callous demand, but it was hard. Slowly, he picked himself up off the floor; helping Swoop gather the scattered tools. It was only fair, he figured, seeing as how he had made the pterodactyl drop them in the first place when the two of them had collided during his entry. "So...," Bumblebee started curiously, following in Swoop's wake to Ratchet. "Why are two of the dinobots in medbay for anyhow?"

What could he say? Ratchet's grumpiness was hardly a deterrent for a situation this peculiar.

The medic grumbled something under his intakes at the yellow mech's approach, not tearing his attention away from Sludge. "Go feed your insatiable curiosity somewhere else. My medbay is not a playground."

"Swoop tell," the naive dinobot spoke up, happily turning to Bumblebee. "Brother Sludge hurt optics. Swoop find him up mountain hurt. Bring back to ship, so Momma bot can fix him Sludge."

Any lingering annoyance or stubbornness that the beetle had at that moment vanished immediately. "Sludge... sludge got hurt?," he gaped, turning to Ratchet. "But, how?! Who could have done so?"

"That's what I'd like to know...," the CMO replied, glaring at his tools.

Bumblebee was still in disbelief. He had a servo pressed to his helm, his confused optics turned to the floor. "It couldn't have been the Decepticons... I mean, we would have heard the alarms go off if they were in the vicinity," he mumbled to himself. "A little off-base Red Alert may be, but a Decepticon's never gotten into the Ark since he's been in charge of surveillance. And really, who could take on any of the dinobots -alone or together? It's just... I mean..."

The minibot turned to Ratchet. "Ratchet, don't you have any idea who could have done this?," he asked.

Ratchet was already pulling out the fractured glass of Sludge's optics. He missed the other two mechs flinching as he grabbed a small laser scalpel, turning on the beam to its smallest frequency and clearing out the rest of the pieces and the solvent that usually kept the glass in place. "...I have some ideas...," he confessed lowly, trading his scalpel for a smaller set of tweezers. "But nothing of importance. Unless Sludge remembers who exactly did this to him, or until further evidence surfaces, I'm not about to go running around, blaming innocent mechs. There's too much tension on this ship as it is."

Bumblebee nodded slowly. "That I can agree with..." The minibot sighed. "What happened to the good days, when we were just the heroes?"

"Heroism is an illusion Bumblebee. This is war. Nobody gets through it without some kind of scar. Some...not at all."

Sombre silence fell at the medic's cold, but true, words. "If that's all, I'd appreciate it if you would leave," Ratchet spoke up, after a klik. "This is going to take a while and I could do without any distractions. While you're at it, Bumblebee, would you kindly inform Blaster that Tracks will have to go to Hoist for his check-up this afternoon. I doubt I'll be free before then."

"Yeah, sure... alright," came the reluctant reply. The CMO slowly pulled away from his work, glancing at Bumblebee.

"Why Bumblebee," he said neutrally, "You sound strangely annoyed with your fellow comrade."

Bumblebee stopped his shoulder roll before it could complete itself. "It doesn't matter," he mumbled to the silent question. "Tracks has been...I dunno... just, whatever."

"Tracks? He is pretty car with wings, yes?," Swoop piped up. The innocent inquiry startled the other two Autobots, who had forgotten entirely that the pterodactyl was there. It wasn't often that a dinobot could be found being quiet, after all. At the others' surprised expressions, Swoop bowed his helm, nervously picking at his wings. "Swoop see pretty car sometimes; Swoop not like flying near him. Swoop say he pretty car not right either..."

The minibot turned his helm just a fraction to the side, his gaze glancing off somewhere across the room. Ratchet caught the action though from the corner of his peripheral, and the frown he wore deepened. Glancing first from Swoop and then to Bumblebee, the CMO slowly turned to face Sludge.

"I see...," he whispered, cupping the confused dinobot's cheekplate, "...I see..."

**xxXxXxx**

**Present**

**xxXxXxx**

A sob escaped him as he fell a second time, his pede getting twisted up in branches and mud so that it was stuck within a horrid knot, keeping him from being able to run anymore. Desperately though, Tracks tried to claw back up, knocked to the ground when his hunter broke through the foliage behind him; a blue fist grabbing his helm before slamming his face into the dirt below. Crying and sputtering, the Autobot tried to swing at the other mech as his wing was grabbed and he was forcibly turned around but all he got was two swift punches to his face for the effort.

"Glitch!," came the curse, sounding strange through Soundwave's flat vocalizer. The furious red visor was not though.

"P-please, I-i-i-" Angry servos were wrapping around his neck cables quickly, cutting off Tracks' pleas as the Decepticon crushed the delicate cords. Soundwave stared down silently at the squawking corvette; lifting his servos and slamming the other's helm into the ground again.

"Fact: have been warned," the communications officer growled. "Have been told to stay away from the others. Demand: Now you go and run to him?! You think he will protect you; you dare to think he can save you!"

The Decepticon snarled a second time, unwinding one servo from Tracks' throat so he could back-hand the mech. A sharp cry was ripped from the multi-coloured 'bot with the action, cheekplates slightly dented now and streaked with blue paint. Even against such violence, Blaster was in the corvette's thoughts, reminding Soundwave how both had dared to affiliate behind his back. It filled the telepath with so much rage that his rival would even assume he could steal Tracks from him.

"Status: You are mine!," Soundwave spat at the weeping Autobot beneath him. "Fact: Will never be rescued; will never be loved by him. You will always belong to me."

Tracks only cried further, begging silently that Blaster would come save him. Reading the unheard wish, the Decepticon could barely restrain from throttling the corvette. But no, he told himself firmly, he was here for another reason, and though this latest bit of news disturbed him, his plans for this orn would fix this gross error. The only difference now would be that the communications officer would have to make this a punishment for Tracks, for ever attempting to give himself to someone else.

Soundwave would not abide Tracks being taken by another, and certainly not by his pathetic Autobot counter-part either.

**xxXxXxx**

**A Few Hours Earlier**

**xxXxXxx**

He should have guessed that demons didn't die.

"You'll be alright... yes?," Blaster asked uncertainly, his optics looking desperately into the corvette's. Despite the churning of his fuel tanks, Tracks half-smiled up at the boombox.

"Yes. I will be okay."

Relief showed itself in the other's gaze. "Good," the red mech sighed, pulling the corvette into a quick hug. "I won't be gone for long," he swore, drawing back a little. His servos were still resting on the multicoloured mech's shoulder tires; gently brushing the imprinted rubber. "Just a few orns, promises. You just make sure to rest up and don't go outside alone, alright? We don't want you to have another run-in with that whacked dinobot."

Tracks didn't bother replying to that. He never had the intention of leaving his room in the first place.

Blaster searched his optics again, obviously hesitating. For what, the other didn't know. It's not as if the communications officer was going to be that far away; he was only going down to Brazil to help Jazz and Bluestreak with the stunticons, who decided to show up and play a twisted version of 'Chicken' with the humans while Megatron was off on Cybertron. With part of their forces on Cybertron as well, and the rest either out visiting the human cities or surrounding forests, the Ark was somewhat quiet this orn. It seemed unlikely that anything would happen during this unprecedented lull.

It almost meant that the corvette could get the solitude he craved at this moment.

He felt so... torn.

A beep resounded from Blaster's comm link, no doubt a message from Skyfire. The shuttle had volunteered to take the red mech down to Brazil, since he was the only available mech who could cover that much distance and quickly. Blaster sighed at its presence, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to Tracks' lip components. "I'll be back," he repeated, smiling at his lover. He waited long enough for Tracks to nod in acknowledgement before hurrying from the corvette's room and down the hall.

Silently, the multicoloured mech watched him go; fully aware of the piercing glare he could feel against his backstruts. Shutting his door, Tracks slowly turned around, unsurprised to see the spectre growling at him from within his mirror.

It had been a while since he'd seen it last...

Slowly, Tracks crossed the brightly lit room, settling down on the edge of his berth. His gaze fell to the mirror, staring blankly at the battered mech within his view. The glass was smooth and polished, his cracked mirror having been replaced, Blaster kindly exchanging it for a new one with an elegant gold frame. Among numerous other additions the communications officer had brought into his room in the past week. "You've changed...," spat the mech, leaning forwards.

Mild surprise touched the indifferent Autobot. "Perhaps," Tracks replied softly.

"Perhaps you had thought I was gone for good too, hmm?," the other mocked.

The corvette did not reply to that. Both of them knew he had believed that to be the case. The spectre barked sharply with dead laughter, sneering at his counter-part. "And I guess this," he waved a servo behind him, gesturing to the rest of the room- the vase of lilies on his desk, the stereo placed on the shelf, the warm lights, "Is part of the 'new you'? Don't tell me that you honestly believe this changes anything. You're just a filthy whore, waiting for your next spike."

Tracks cringed, curling into himself. "N-not...," he protested weakly, "...n-not a... whore..."

"Oh really? Then what about the others? What about the ones that you were so convinced you needed? Those ignorant fools that you preyed on, waiting until they were weak in spark or over-charged from high-grade... Did those things not happen as well?" The instigator snarled, fists slamming along the mirror's frame. "You can't change the things that you are, even with some light and fresh flowers."

"Y-you...," the winged mech hissed, servos covering his audios uselessly. "You don't know... Blaster, h-he gave these to me. He, he's helping me..."

"Helping you?," the spectre howled hysterically. His twisted smile soon became a fanged grimace. "Since when have you ever wanted help?," he growled, pressing in close to the glass. "You wanted to pretend that this -all of this mess- never happened! You were the one that said it was 'nothing', and now you have the audacity to proclaim that Blaster is here to save you?!"

"You fragging liar! The only 'help' you want is in the form of a fragging gag and a spike roughly fragging your dirty, little valve!"

"N-no, that's n-"

"Don't tell me that it isn't!," roared his reflection, cutting off his pathetic stuttering. "How long has it been since you last were filled, huh? Too long, I know that... The memories, they're getting worse aren't they? You, you'd just like to forget for a little while, wouldn't you? But Blaster hasn't yet touched you like that, and he says he adores you so... Tell me, is that why you've been behaving like a good lil' sparkling? Are you hoping that Blaster will 'love' you just enough to frag you?"

Tracks pressed his servos tighter to his helm, springing up onto his pedes. "No," he hissed, pacing the room, "No. No, I...I don't..." He stopped right there, unable to truly deny the things the other mech had accused him off. The nightmares, they had been coming back to him, disrupting his recharge; thrusting him back into consciousness, whimpering and crying, desperate for mercy. His chassis ached in response, demanding that he leave his room and find himself someone worthy enough. Anybody who could make the memories go away for a little while longer.

But he couldn't just do that now, the corvette knew. Blaster was constantly at his side, watching over him, trying to make sure he was okay. If he attempted to seek someone out, then the boombox would find out. He'd know the truth, about how Tracks was nothing more than a needy glitch, who needed to have his valve stretched and pumped full so badly that it was starting to burn his systems the longer he held back. If the boombox knew what he was really like, then... then he'd tell the others. Everyone would know he was wrong; they'd abandon him, not wanting to dirty themselves in his presence anymore. And if he was alone, even for an astrosecond...

Soundwave.

He'd come. He'd find him, and Tracks, he knew he'd never be free then.

"Blaster... h-he, he c-cares," the corvette mumbled anxiously, walking back and forth before the mirror. His spectre watched him silently with that venomous gaze of his. "H-he said he wanted t-to help me; t-that he loves me. H-he's good... r-real good... He c-can make them g-go away. He c-can."

"Tell him to go away," the mech in the mirror demanded. His optics flashed, bleeding into a dark indigo. "Now. Tell him to leave you alone. Say that you don't need his help. Send him far away from you; break his spark if you have to."

Tracks gaped at the reflection, shaking his helm quickly in disobedience. "No, I-"

The spectre hissed, before he started shouting again. "Quit with your lies! You just admitted that he was a good mech. If that's true, then he especially doesn't deserve to be snared in your web. Release him now, you vampire, before you destroy someone else with your sick, fragging manipulations."

"S-stop it!," the multi-coloured mech cried. He whirled on the mirror, coolant glazing his optics and his fists clenched shakily by his sides. "Stop calling me those nasty things! I-i am not a whore! I'm not a liar!"

The reflection fell silent. "...Then let him go," he repeated, "Before you ruin him."

The accusation stunned the corvette. This time, Tracks snarled back. "I said no," he pushed, stomping up to the mirror. "Blaster is going to make everything better. He will, you'll see, and no one will ever have to know the truth either! I'm not about to let him go; I won't ruin him. I haven't ruined anything yet!"

The spectre had his denta bared as well, pressing against his prison, getting in the Autobot's face as much as was possible. "Have we forgotten so soon about Sludge then? Yes...," he smirked cruelly at the other's flinch. "I remember that brute. He was just another one of your poor toys, that you used and threw away once you'd had your take. But you never expected for the oaf to have that much will of his own; for him to suddenly want more out of you. Did you enjoy it, hmm? Being shoved into that mountain, right outside of the Ark, codpiece ripped back and valve fra-"

"SHUT UP!"

The corvette grabbed the mirror, throwing it across the room. The resounding shatter sent his frightened processor into a frenzy, tripping over his pedes as he shuffled backwards, arms wrapping tight around his heaving chassis. "Shut up!," he shrieked, rocking, trying to calm himself down as coolant pooled heavily along his optics. "JUST SHUT UP!"

"What does it matter..." drifted a voice from the fragmented pieces. Horrified, Tracks looked down at the shards of glass, seeing the spectre staring back at him in disjointed segments. Those dark, dead optics pinning him with their ruthless gaze. "Even if I'm silent," the other echoed, his voice multiplied by a hundred. One voice for every sliver of glass... "Even if I go away like you want, it doesn't mean you'll be free. You know Ratchet fixed Sludge."

"How long do you think it'll take him to figure out exactly who did that to the dinobot?"

"How long do you think you'll have before everyone becomes aware of the nasty monster that you really are?"

"Good people don't shoot their comrades."

The corvette let out a hopeless whimper; running out of the room, fleeing his inner demons.

**xxXxXxx**

The silent message cut through his thoughts, interrupting Soundwave from his activities for the moment. Slightly annoyed, he mused if he should just ignore it, but the transmission was from Buzzsaw. His loyal, if not opinionated, symbiont would not bother him unless it was vital. He glanced around the room discretely, unsurprised to find no one nearby. With Megatron and Starscream off on Cybertron, and the communications officer playing leading authority, the rest of the 'cons were free to do whatever they wished -as long as it didn't already interfere with their duties or any of Megatron's plans. As such, that meant a lot of the soldiers had either left base for an orn of causing mayhem on local human cities or were amusing themselves in other ways back in their quarters.

Safe in the knowledge that he wasn't about to be walked in on, the tapedeck granted the cassetticon access, demanding a status update. Buzzsaw spoke to his master quickly, not wasting time on personal information. Soundwave supposed he liked that curtness of the bird symbiont. The Autobot was mobile, the smaller 'bot told its creator.

The communications officer stiffened in his seat.

_'Demand: Explain,'_ he replied, fingers already moving towards the terminal before him. They taped away quickly, diving through the Nemesis' standard database, linking through a cleverly disguised data stream and connecting to his own personal console back in his room. He drew up a folder that sat waiting right there on the desk top.

The cassetticon continued his report. He had left the Ark in a hurry, heading in what seemed a random direction, towards the desert instead of the city. And he was alone.

The communications officer felt his circuits begin to hum excitedly. Without missing a beat, Soundwave reigned that feeling in though, assessing the information that he had received so far. He pressed Buzzsaw for more, wanting to know if anybody else was aware of this. Buzzsaw confidently reported that not a soul knew the Autobot had left.

A thrill ran through Soundwave. He quickly opened his private folder, the plating on his index finger retracting, exposing a usb port, which he then used to plug into the console's jack. Immediately the screen flashed to show that a download was in progress. _'Understood,'_ he said to his awaiting creation. _'Order: maintain surveillance. Make sure he does not head for populated areas.'_

Buzzsaw gave his confirmation grudgingly, before the line fell silent again.

**xxXxXxx**

**Present**

**xxXxXxx**

Vents expelling hot air sluggishly, Soundwave withdrew from the still frame under him, rising to his pedes coldly. His spike remained unsheathed, slicked in copious amounts of fluids -mostly his own, but also lilac, the colour of spilled energon. On the ground, his arms wrenched and pinned painfully around the tree he was currently half-propped up against, was Tracks, dim optics staring unseeingly at something between dinged pedes. No response came from the Autobot, not even as the communications officer pulled his mouth open, pushing his spike into the moist cavern.

Systems rumbling pleasantly at the obedience shown by the winged mech, Soundwave quickly overloaded for a third time that evening; smirking beneath his battle mask as Tracks choked around his spike, bubbles of lubricant frothing out around the red lip components. The sight -of a beaten and open corvette, with transfluid streaked across his spread thighs and dribbling down his chin- was a beautiful display indeed, and the telepath prided himself in the masterpiece he had created. The punishment, he figured, had been thorough enough. A shame he had to deny Tracks even the pleasure of a bitter-sweet overload... but he had to be taught a lesson.

He belonged only to Soundwave: chassis, valve and all.

And now all that was needed to prove that... was for the Decepticon to take his spark.

Soundwave lowered himself into a crouch, stroking the other's dented cheekplates tenderly. He said nothing, though he wanted to again declare the corvette as his own, instead shifting the legs so that they were wrapped around his middle snugly; his spike once more sliding easily into those silken folds. The tiniest whimper escaped Tracks, but it was easily muffled as the communications officer pushed his face towards the tree. While Soundwave rolled into a slow grind, his other servo was busy stroking along seams and over joints, getting closer to the Autobot's chestplates. At first, Tracks didn't notice, until those devilish fingers were starting to dig into the plating covering his spark.

"N-no! Do-don't!," the corvette shouted suddenly, struggling against his bonds. He shrieked, trying to kick at the Decepticon, but Soundwave merely shoved his face back into the bark, thrusting deep into the other mech. He hadn't expected Tracks to put up a fight so far along now, but it was a pleasant surprise and the tapedeck relished the action.

"Fact: can not stop me," he said in a gentle tone, as if his words were meant to be soothing. A broken sob escaped Tracks. Soundwave let his thumb stroke the scuffed plating, before his fingers were again digging into the seams. "Status: you are mine. And soon, even you will remember that."

The Autobot tried to buck, crying out when he yanked his arms too harshly, almost pulling them from the joint. But still, it did not stop Tracks' desperate attempts to get free, wriggling and writhing, determined to get the Decepticon off and out of him. "P-please!," he begged hoarsely, coolant soaking his cheekplates as he blubbered. "D-don't... k-kill me! I don't c-care! Fr-frag me a-as much as y-you'd like, b-but pl-please... p-please, d-don't..."

The communications officer canted his helm to the side at the plea, his fingers retracting for a moment. "Fact: your compromise means little. Status: already have you. Mission: to make sure you can not be taken by another now." The red visor flashed darkly, before Tracks screamed, feeling the other's tentacles slithering and sneaking into every open space, getting to the sensitive wires and components underneath.

Soundwave paid no mind to the terrified wails his prey was giving, intent on only finding the manual release within. His probing tentacles touched over something, and electricity zinged back up to his arm. Shivering at the delicious sensation, the tapedeck focused his attention on that entire area; grasping about for the release switch he knew had to be there somewhere around the spark chamber. A scream -of utter fear and hopelessness- was wrenched from Tracks' vocalizer as soon as the tentacles pushed against something rotund. With a low hiss, the winged mech's chestplates began to part, warm, pulsing light seeping out from the gaps.

For a moment, the Decepticon pulled back, almost startled by the vibrant, pale blue light. He watched, in a macabre sort of reverence, as the spark chamber was shown to him; delicate, whirling infinite orb glowing strongly beneath his red gaze. It pulsed, the wave of energy reaching out, brushing hotly against Soundwave's chassis, his spike and spark reacting in response to the ghostly touch. With renewed vigor, the communications officer fell onto the Autobot, breaking out into a wild pace. His servos grasped under Tracks' aft, pushing the corvette tighter against him, as he commanded his own chestplates to open.

The cassette cover slid down to his stomach plating, the interior separating and sliding out of the way for his spark to come forward. The purple orb spun quickly as it was exposed to the atmosphere, large and crackling with lust, sending out fervent pulses of energy, anxious to connect with the other spark it could feel nearby. Not wasting a moment longer, Soundwave slammed his chassis against Tracks' battered one, clutching the multi-coloured mech close as the sudden fusion of two sparks sent both of their frames into violent spasms at the resulting energy flux. Disorientated, overwhelmed with lust and bliss, it took all of the tapedeck's focus to remember his plans.

Stuttering, stumbling through the haze of his processor, Soundwave reached for the innocent folder waiting in his system's databanks; from within, something stirred.

Gasping, the Decepticon was distracted for a moment, ramming wildly into Tracks as the corvette continued to squeal and keen as they plummeted towards overload. Pleasure sung across his haywire circuits -his or Tracks', he couldn't tell anymore. All Soundwave was aware of was the rush of the universe, filling him to the brim until he felt he would implode and dissolve back into the nether. And among it all, twists and flashes of a life, feelings, a conscience that he was sure wasn't his own. Greedily, he grasped at those figments, sucking them into the entirety of his being, even as he morphed and was slowly becoming something 'not Soundwave'. Something more like 'us', instead.

Right before he dropped over into the intoxicating abyss, memory forced him to unwind his claws from around an item -in the back of his processor came a wicked crow of delight at the action, unheard over the encompassing cries of completion, before the creature he had once held prisoner was shooting across the universe, throwing itself into the sun waiting on the other end.

Then existence halted for a moment of time.

**xxXxXxx**

Light pede-steps echoed down the hall, joined by a merry hum. Coming to a pause, the stranger punched in his pass to a door; the lock beeping in confirmation and opening up for the mech. Humming again, he entered into the room, his pedes crunching on the glass scattered all over the floor.

Blue optics flared, before dimming to normal output, the mech inspecting the glass blankly. "Well, that's no good," he smiled after a moment. "I suppose I'll have to clean up this mess before I can do anything myself. Such a shame... and it was a beautiful mirror as well. Alas."

Crossing the room with a skip, the stranger pulled a small brush out of a drawer and a dust pan as well. Getting on his servos and knee joints, he swept all the broken glass up into the dust pan, before taking the collected mess and throwing it in the trash bin at the other end of the room. Picking up the over-turned mirror as well, the mech set it, back facing out, against the wall beside the bin.

"At least I have another one," the mysterious 'bot said to himself. He crossed over to his desk, pulling an oval mirror out of one of the drawers and setting it up so he could view himself. When he was pleased with the way it stood, the mech then grabbed several cans of wax, paints and soft clothes out of the same drawer. Each of these he set upon the desk, placing them in the order he would soon be using them.

Humming, he first wiped his frame down with one of the clothes, making sure that any moisture or possible dust was well and off of his chassis. Then the stranger grabbed a can of paint, taking a delicate brush in the other servo, and meticulously going along every inch of his plating, fixing his paintjob. A finish went over top next, getting rid of any buffs or scratches as well. "I'm so glad the showers were free," the mech said to himself merrily, "It would have been horrific if anyone had seen me like that: all dented and dusty. I don't know why I ever thought a race through rocky desert would be a good idea."

Tender fingers worked the wax on, taking care to get in every joint and seam, applying the solution evenly until his plating was once again gleaming. Catching sight of himself in his armour, the stranger blew a kiss to his reflection; laughing at himself a moment after at his foolishness. Up worked the fingers, massaging now, a gasp escaping parted lip components as his servos wrapped around his own wings. The hot water had done wonders on the sore joints earlier, but the sensitive appendages were still greatly battered it felt and just the loving caress he gave them sent his engine humming as well. A sly servo slipped back down his frame, slipping between his thighs.

Maybe he should...?

A beep resounded through the room as someone from the outside entered his key pass; the doors opening with a quick hiss, granting entrance to the unknown visitor. Slowly, the mech turned to face his guest, expression inquisitive.

"Hey Tracks, I'm ba- oh wow..." Blaster stopped just past the door, his cheekplates colouring slightly as he stared at the corvette. He barely noticed the shadow that fled from the other's optics, fixated as he was on the glossy plating and gleaming wings. With the warm light refracting off the multi-coloured 'bot's finish, Tracks was the very picture of beauty.

"Y-you...um," the communications officer stuttered, suddenly feeling very self-conscious and just a tad confused. "You got fixed up, h-huh?"

Tracks smiled warmly at him, putting away his containers and clothes. "Of course," he replied sultrily, getting to his pedes. Blaster wasn't entirely sure if the other Autobot was swaying his hips purposefully as he approached him, or if that was an unconscious thing that Tracks did habitually. "I just felt like a good sprucing up was needed. Is there ever a reason not to look one's best?"

Blaster didn't have an answer to that one.

"U-umm, anyways," the boombox started quickly, turning his helm away from the handsome mech. The blush on his face deepened. "I already had my, uh, d-debriefing with Prowl, s-so, umm, ya wanna go out? G-get some energon, I mean, a-and, um, maybe have a p-picnic? Outdoors? I-it's really nice today..."

A warm servo rested on the communications officer's arm, startling the red mech. Looking up into the siren's smiling optics, Blaster almost missed what Tracks said. "Yes, I think that would be most lovely. Should I bring anything?," the corvette asked politely.

"N-no," the other Autobot smiled giddily. He hesitated a moment, before leaning in quickly and pecking Tracks on the mouth. "Sorry," Blaster apologized, pulling back immediately after. His lip components were quirked in a nervous smile, his face flushing further as he slipped a servo behind his helm. "I-i, uh, just really am glad to s-see you're doing okay. I admit, I was worried something might happen to you while I was down in Brazil."

Tracks smiled wryly up at the boombox, laughing lightly. "Don't be silly, Blaster. What could possibly happen to me while I'm here?"

The red mech shuttered his optics in confusion, but before he could comment further on the odd reply, the corvette was looping their arms together, turning his partner towards the door. "Now, I believe you made an offer of lunch?," Tracks gently nudged.

"Oh... oh yeah!," Blaster beamed, remembering what he had said earlier himself. Grinning obliviously at the other mech, the boombox clasped Tracks' servo tightly in his own, again pecking the multi-coloured Autobot on the cheekplate. "Let's get some eats."

"Yes," smiled the corvette. "Let's..."

A silent creature reared upwards with a hiss, slowly spreading its claws from below.


	8. Cruel

**Suggested listening: Within you- David Bowie (Labyrinth soundtrack)**   
**Story Episode: Cosmic Rust**

**Chapter 8: Cruel**

There were servos... many servos... sifting through his processor, digging into his hard drives. Tasting, devouring, reveling in the well of memories that they withdrew; literally basking in them, soaking them up and making them unavoidable any more. He remembered...

_Iacon. Shining, beautiful, peaceful. He was in the shop that day, pruning over his reflection secretly as he shined a jewelled emblem for a favourite customer of his. The mech was a councilor and seemed to have a soft spot for him. It was obvious the Elite had a preference for the exotic... But alas, he did not care for the councilor in return so he did not allow their relationship to exceed past that of a friendly, business one. Still, it didn't mean he couldn't enjoy a little blatant flirting here and there._

_It usually encouraged his patrons to pay extra._

_White wings fluttered giddily at the idea, their owner smiling foolishly as he thought of his next interface session. There was a handsome mech down the block, who worked in Shipment. They'd been berth partners previously; idly, he wondered if the other would be up for another night together. It would be fun, he knew, for both of them._

_A sound, like none he had ever heard of, roared through the open door, startling many of the passersby on the street and himself. Immediately after, the ground trembled violently and glass shattered; knocked to the floor off his stool, he watched in horror as the world began to collapse around him._

Coolant pricked at his optics, and he felt he might cry as the trauma of his city's destruction was brought back to the forefront of his thoughts. It had been ages since he had last recalled what had driven him into war in the first place. The servos stopped their callous flipping, tucking the memory files away again; stroking and petting in a cold, impatient fashion, trying to calm him down. As dazed as he was, the motion worked.

Slowly, he was slipping back under the veil of unconsciousness, forgetting about the servos' irregular presence in his helm or the harrowing sorrow of his destroyed home.

**xxXxXxx**

Warm music flowed from Blaster's speakers; humming along with the tune, he leaned casually against the rec room wall, his chair tipped back and his pedes up on the table. Some of the minibots sent him irritated glares, but otherwise the other mechs present in the room had no qualms with the pleasant music, so no one bothered the communications officer about turning it off. A klik later though the music was cutting to a sudden stop as Tracks entered into the room. "Hey Tracks!," Blaster shouted out across the room, leaping to his pedes and hurrying to the corvette's side.

The multi-coloured mech smiled kindly at the boombox; together, they headed for the energon dispenser. "Hello Blaster. How are you this orn?"

"Stellar," the red Autobot beamed back. "So hey, I was wondering -if you're not on duty or anything, wanna go and catch a movie in town? The weather man says it's gonna be clear skies all night, and they've got a real interesting flick showing at the drive thru."

Tracks' lip components quirked into a coy smile as he got his ration. "Are you asking me out on a date, Blaster?," he teased, blue optics sparkling over the lip of his cube.

Blushing, Blaster smiled back crookedly, scratching the back of his helm subconsciously. "W-well, umm, y-yeah... I guess I a-am, if y-you put it that way."

"Yes, I know," the corvette chuckled lightly. "I was just teasing. A movie sounds quite nice, and I do have this evening off."

"Oh... oh! O-oh! Awesome!," Blaster beamed. He hesitated, wondering if he should kiss Tracks again, but the moment passed as the other Autobot turned away; wings fluttering seductively before the boombox.

"I suppose I should go get ready then. I'm assuming snacks are a necessity for events like this, yes?," Tracks asked, glancing over a shoulder tire.

"No- I mean, well... It's alright," the red mech grinned widely. "I've got everything prepared anyhow. You don't have to bring anything but your beautiful self. I'll just pick you up once my shift is over, okay?"

The winged Autobot chuckled again. "Speaking of shifts... yours doesn't happen to start after the noon rotations, does it?"

Blaster shuttered his optics at the unexpected inquiry. "Well, umm... yeah... Why do you ask?"

Tracks' lip components quirked upwards, as if enjoying himself in a private joke for a moment, before replying, "Because I do believe that rotation ended twenty kliks ago." Startled, the boombox quickly checked his internal chronometer, giving a yelp of surprise when he saw that the corvette was right. Giving a distracted goodbye to his companion, Blaster scrambled for the rec room door, striking up a chorus from his fellow comrades, who couldn't help but laugh at the funny display, as the communications officer realized he was late for his shift.

Sipping at his cube again to hide his own good-natured amusement, Tracks made his way towards an empty table; behind his optics, a stream of darkness slithered past with a growl.

**xxXxXxx**

Again, Lord Megatron had left for business. And he had taken Starscream with him.

Soundwave paced about the command deck, approaching various monitors and checking that all controls were in their proper settings. Sometimes he would adjust them, turning something up or down, or even flipping switches and turning dials here and there. Usually though, he just simply observed the stats flashing across the screens, mutely pleased that the read-outs were how they should be. Faintly, his thoughts drifted back to the tyrant and his strange preference for bringing the arrogant air commander with him every time he left planet-side. It was confusing, even to himself, and not being able to press Megatron's processor for the answer chafed in a somewhat irritating way.

Did Megatron fear losing Starscream if he was away, or was the ruthless leader actually concerned about his throne?

The communications officer pushed aside his frivalous theories, finding them useless and pointless at this moment. He had, after all, other things to take care of. One of them being running this screwloose army in Megatron's absence; the other, his continued hunt of the Autobot Tracks.

The mere thought of the corvette caused Soundwave's systems to hum. Suppressing his lust for the time, the tapedeck allowed himself to bask in the heady rush of victory coursing through his sensory grid. His pride swelled and his spark pulsed in hunger. It was hard to believe sometimes, but he had really done it -he had ensured that Tracks would forever be his. Even now, Soundwave knew the parasite he had made was working its way through the Autobot's systems, swimming deeply through his processor, curling around his spark and cutting him further away from his comrades. Perfect in its programming, the viral worm would seep itself deep into Tracks' coding; changing, altering or otherwise tearing down all self-made blocks until the corvette was left with nothing but the memories of Soundwave... and from there, the creature's magic would be put to work.

Soundwave had not lied when he had said he'd make Tracks his. This ingenius A.I coding would ensure that Tracks would think of only him, want only him, serve only him... It would also make the winged mech susceptible to sparking. A secondary measure, the communications officer knew. While the parasite could still be removed if discovered and its poisonous affects undone, a spark could not be so easily removed nor would the others attempt to do so. The Autobots were weak in that sense.

A spark bond would be too dangerous to attempt between himself and the corvette, when the war was still raging so viciously, but if Tracks did come to carry any of his creations... the effect would be ever-lasting. Corrosion from the parasite would be imbedded into the new spark, further altering Tracks' own behaviour and making him entirely loyal to Soundwave; as well, the new life would be proof that the Autobot had opened himself up to a Decepticon. He would be cast aside from his comrades, no longer trusted or wanted.

Soundwave smirked behind his battle mask.

Yes, no matter what the outcome, his plan was flawless. Tracks would forever be his and his alone.

The communications officer would have laughed in triumph if it weren't for the hesitant presence he felt encroach in his hearing range. Scowling, Soundwave kept his attention fixed to the monitors before him, pretending that he was busy working on them. Anxiety seeped into his helm heavily, thick with sorrow and need. Fingers still tapping away at keyboard keys, the telepath slid his optics to the door, subtly gazing at the stunticon hovering there quietly. Oblivious to the attention he was receiving, Breakdown continued to fidget in place a few kliks longer before he nervously skittered into the room.

"Soundwave," the lamborghini vented softly, his arms sliding around the back of the seat and clinging to the communications officer's neck cables. "Am I ever so glad to see y-"

Soundwave stood to his pedes suddenly, ripping off the other's hold on him as he did so. Cringing as the older Decepticon turned to face him, Breakdown dropped his gaze to the floor, his servos clawing at his sides nervously.

"I-i... I kn-know! I k-know I'm n-not su-supposed to," the stunticon squeaked, cursing himself weakly for how pathetic he sounded. "B-but it's be-been so long; I-i missed y-you. I...I double-checked. Th-there's no one a-around, I thought-"

The telepath's visor flashed dangerously. Catching its vivid glow reflecting from the floor between their pedes, Breakdown quickly clicked off his vocalizer, his knee joints trembling weakly. "P-please... pl-please, don't b-be angry w-with me," he begged, trying to stifle the hiccups in his engine. He glanced up quickly, staring Soundwave in the visor, before ducking his helm again.

Without even needing to press for the information, the communications officer could tell how much the lamborghini wished to hold him. To be captured in the blue mech's arms, pinned to the nearest surface and 'faced, good and long. The young Decepticon's thoughts were practically screaming with his needy desires.

Behind his mask, Soundwave sneered.

Unable to take the tense silence any more, Breakdown leaped forward, wrapping his arms tight around the tapedeck as he pushed upwards to kiss the other's battle mask. Pain erupted across his sensory grid as he was shoved to the ground suddenly, then kicked in the side. "S-soundwave...?," the white mech whimpered, slowly pushing himself up onto his knees. He looked up at the communications officer and found that blood-red visor staring back.

For the first time in his function, he cringed under its glow.

"I-i... I'm sorry! I kn-know! I k-know I'm braking t-the rules," Breakdown choked, dropping his helm to the floor as an arm weaved around to cradle his injured side. "B-but I..."

Soundwave turned to leave. Engines revving fearfully, the stunticon scrambled up onto his pedes, throwing himself at the other Decepticon. "P-please," he begged, burying his face into the tapedeck's shoulder. Breakdown did not wish for Soundwave to see his weakness. "I-i won't -I s-swear I won't ev-ever dismay y-you again! J-just... please... c-can we g-go? T-to your room? Pl-please?"

Shyly, the lamborghini lifted his gaze, seeing the blue mech looking back at him. A shaky smile tugging at his lip components, Breakdown pulled back a little; his fingers still clenched tightly around Soundwave's arm, but his grip no longer as clawed. Spark welling hopefully, the stunticon opened his mouth, "I-"

Reality shifted as he was sent crashing to the floor once again.

It took him astroseconds to push himself back up again, a trembling servo rising to his dented cheekplate, where the tapedeck had back-handed him. "S-soundwave...," Breakdown whimpered, tears slipping down his face. "S-soundwave, w-why...?!"

The older Decepticon turned to face him fully, and the white mech flinched, folding into himself a little subconsciously. His servos shook, his engine rattled, and his fuel tanks swirled nauseously. Even if Soundwave had not been able to read the other's processor, he would still have known the confusion that plagued the young soldier at this moment. It was written all over his terrified, tear-streaked face.

"S-soundwave...," the other weakly pleaded, "D-don't... I-i..."

"Fact: you are no longer of use to me," the communications officer coldly cut in. His visor flashed as he looked down at the pitiful creature at his pedes. "Status: have all that I want now."

Ice filled his energon lines and his engines choked into silence, as Breakdown watched Soundwave turn away from him a second time; leaving the command deck without either a backwards glance or an empty farewell to give.

...All around him, the world collapsed, as a web of static overcame everything...

**xxXxXxx**

_Pain grabbed at his throat, crushing the delicate lines; forcing him down, to the ground, with only a band of red as the star he orbited around. He struggled, trying to fight back, to throw the lethal grip off. It merely tightened, and fear swelled through his entire world._

_Please, he thought to beg, please! Let me go!_

_His defenses fell and the universe was a swath of deep blue as his agony increased. Screaming proved futile; the words could barely make it out of his throat, let alone past his lip components. His tears were nothing but stinging reminders of his shame as they burned heated trails down his beaten face. His weakness..._

_Circuits crackled and bars along his sensor grid blew out with the sensory overload, unable to endure any longer. Slowly, he was losing use of limbs, as more fuses ruptured and simple cognitive systems gave out. Helplessness -twisted within a knot of fear, horror and exhaustion- filled his spark, weakening him further before he simply admitted defeat and willingly drifted into the blackness writhing at the edges of his vision._

_The choking fingers noticed his escape, loosening just a tad to keep him lingering a few astroseconds longer._

_...they felt like an eternity..._

"Remember," _intoned a hissing voice. Above him, the red light swelled before quieting again._ "The punishment lasts until you learn your place."

_He shuttered his optics to the bloody glow; screaming hoarsely as raw torment followed him down into the relieving darkness, ripping into him one last time..._

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks shot up in his berth, intakes hitching and engine rattling. For a moment, there was only the terror and the bloody gaze that possessed him in the depths of his processor. But then a blanket of static covered his optics before quickly retreating again, and the corvette's wings lowered calmly.

"Where... where am I?," he mumbled quietly. "Who am I?"

Tracks shook his helm.

"Ah, yes!," the mutli-coloured mech beamed in the next astrosecond. He threw off the simple thermal blanket, setting his pedes on the floor and heading for his desk. Tracks then set about bringing his cosmetic supplies out of the drawers, preparing for another clean-up and wax. After all, he had a date to get ready for with Blaster that very evening.

A small, dark hiss echoed in the room, underneath the unknowing mech's humming.

**xxXxXxx**

"Ah... Soundwave. Finally you show your boring mug."

The blue mech ignored the insult as he walked up to the monitor, not interested in Starscream or his silly games. "Inquiry: what is report?," he asked. He did his best not to glance at his symbiont, Rumble, who was jumping up and down in the background, trying to be seen on the screen.

"Stop jumping!," Astrotrain barked, just as Starscream shoved the cassetticon out of sight again.

"Get out of my shot, you little pipsqueak," the seeker hissed. "And you," he continued, turning his glare back to the communications officer on the monitor, "Who do you think you are, ordering me around?! I out-rank you!"

Soundwave was half-tempted to gesture to Blitzwing and end the transmission, but knew that would only enrage the SIC further, who would most certainly take his anger out on the tapedeck later on. Besides, he would like to believe that Starscream had more than half a processor and wasn't simply calling to taunt or gloat about some stupid self-made accomplishment.

Starscream's rant lasted about a klik longer before a gravelly voice roared his name out of the shot. The image shook for a moment, almost making it impossible to see the flinch that the air commander gave. On their end, even Blitzwing cringed at the anger in Megatron's vocalizer. Only Soundwave remained unaffected, safe as he was light years away from the others on screen. Scowling as he was berated viciously, the seeker turned his attention back to the monitor; servos resting on his hips in his usual cocky manner.

"We are returning to base, Soundwave," Starscream informed snippily. His scowl turned into a smirk. "While we did manage to pick up a magnificent device of sure destruction, I am afraid to report that Lord Megatron also took some damage to his frame."

"And what am I? Scrap metal?!," Astrotrain grumbled.

The jet spared a quick glare to the bulkhead above. "Inform the constructicons that they are to prepare medbay for arrival," he continued contemptuously. "Megatron will need immediate attention. And then they can decide if they want to look at this useless, poor-excuse of a space craft afterwards."

Astrotrain mumbled something quietly, which sounded suspiciously similar to "should just jettison you out the air lock" of which Starscream either did not hear or wisely decided to ignore for now, until an opportunity arose for him to exact his revenge on the triple-changer -without incurring further punishment from Megatron, of course.

Soundwave assumed it was the latter.

"Order: understood," the communications officer replied, hoping to wrap this conversation up. "Status: Will begin preparations." The SIC glared at being cut off, but merely snorted in disdain, before reaching forward and pressing something beneath the monitor's view. The screen going dark next announced that Starscrream had ended the transmission. Silently, Soundwave turned to Blitzwing, catching the triple-changer quickly glancing away. He refrained from sneering at the silly response.

"Operation: will be heading to lower levels to inform constructicons of new orders. Status: remain here and continue monitor surveillance until relieved. If needed, can be reached through comm." Staring into the back of the nervous mech's helm a few astroseconds longer, just for the sake of intimidating him, Soundwave turned away and headed for the exit. He would talk to Blitzwing later on, he decided, about watching human transmissions on the Nemesis' network.

For now, he would do as was ordered of him, and if nothing needed his immediate attention, he would take the opportunity to check up on his parasite and Tracks.

**xxXxXxx**

"It's nice out tonight," Tracks smiled, taking the servo that was generously offered to him.

Blaster refrained from tucking in his chin shyly, but could not stop the blush that rose as he helped the corvette past the rocks. "W-well, um, yea. I mean, yes," he stammered, kicking himself mentally as he failed to convey a simple agreement. "T-the, weatherman said it'd be nice, s-so, I'm hoping it'll keep."

"I see," his partner replied, smile increasing a little and optics glowing in amusement. Tracks cocked his helm to the side slightly, peering at the boombox as if he had a secret. "Shall we keep going? Or would you prefer to stand here all evening, holding my servo?"

This time, Blaster did bow his head, staring at the ground as his blush increased. "I-it's just, umm, th-this way...," he mumbled in embarrassment, quickly dropping the multi-coloured mech's servo and marching further up the hill. Blueish, pale light glowed faintly over the crest; highlighting their destination. Reaching the top quickly, Blaster stopped and turned back to see how Tracks' was faring, only to find that the corvette had made it up the climb easily and was approaching the boombox now.

"You know... I wouldn't have minded one bit if you wanted to forgo the movie. It's a wonderful night for star-gazing." Wings fluttered and rouge lip components quirked coyly, as cerulean optics dimmed seductively.

Trying to clear his processor of all his distracting thoughts -and kicking himself again for Tracks suggestion. Star-gazing? Why hadn't he thought of that?- the red mech pointed just down the hill, to where a gravel parking lot was laid; packed with humans and their vehicles, all staring directly ahead to the giant screen that had been erected for such an occasion. Already, the projector booth was casting the opening credits onto the screen. "T-the, uh, movie's st-starting now. We sh-should g-get settled."

Tracks shuttered his optics in puzzlement. "You mean, go down there? But wouldn't we be too big to sit there among the humans? And won't they pester us if they recognize us? Not to mention the gravel can really ding up my paintjob..." The corvette trailed off in his musings, his expression lighting with surprise as he watched Blaster pull a huge blanket out of subspace; unfolding the mass and flapping it once into the air, before laying it across the grass.

"Oh, I see," he smiled sultrily, allowing the red mech to help him down onto the blanket. His optics did not leave Blaster's frame, even as the other Autobot scrambled to sit down beside him, pulling a bucket of bite-size energon cubes and a bottle of low-grade out of subspace as well. "You really did plan everything, didn't you?"

Blaster glanced up at Tracks, but was unable to maintain optic-contact for long. The faint glow of the movie lights reflecting off of the winged mech's glittering plating, the passionate burn of his beautiful optics and the suppleness of his pursed lip components; it made the boombox's systems hum and his spark pulse erratically in his chassis. He was half-tempted to slap himself, just to make sure that this wasn't all just some horribly, wonderful dream.

"I-i, uh," he stuttered, crossing his legs and picking at the blanket beneath his pedes. "I, um, w-wanted everything t-to be per-perfect. L-like you."

He almost missed the sly look Tracks gave him, as the corvette quietly inched closer. The next thing that Blaster knew was that there was a gorgeous, warm frame pressing into his side sensuously; a white helm resting on his shoulder plating comfortably. The red mech tensed up, a strange, hiccuping sound echoing from within his chassis as Tracks only snuggled in closer, one servo resting softly on the communications officer's knee joint. "Am I... unsettling you?," the corvette asked, a wing shivering momentarily against the other's chestplates. "I thought this was what you wanted. But I can move, if you'd like."

Tracks lifted his helm, his beautiful rouge face and glittering optics facing the boombox. "Would you like me to... _move_ , Blaster?"

The suggestion was the last thing the red mech wanted. Before he could think about what he was doing, Blaster lifted a servo, cupping the other Autobot's cheekplate as he slammed his lip components against Tracks'. The moan that escaped the corvette only made the communications officer's circuits sing; with a gentle push, the two of them were lying back against the grass, fingers running down each other's plating as their lip-lock deepened.

This was heaven!

This was... wrong.

Tracks spread his thighs, welcoming the heat of his comrade as Blaster sank closer, trying to settle into the feel of the shy mech above slowly grinding down. The moving of their lip components and the uncertain prodding of a glossa in his mouth felt nice enough, but the servos roaming down his frame, attempting to stroke against flattened wings were clumsy. Harsh. Inexperienced.

It was... unsatisfactory, he thought after a moment. Almost border-line annoying.

Not at all like...

Well, Tracks couldn't recall what to compare this to, but it certainly wasn't the same. It didn't thrill him or push him. Slag, it barely even warmed him up. The corvette was finished before they'd even gotten started.

Blaster hugged Tracks closer, reveling in the other mech's warmth and his sweet, sweet scent -from his wax, no doubt- his spark swelling in his chestplates. It took him nearly a whole klik to realize that the silky legs around his waist had loosened a little and that the corvette was no longer reciprocating as much anymore. Fuel tanks twisting slowly, the boombox stopped in the middle of another kiss, pulling back.

"I-is... I'm s-sorry. I must be moving too fast," he mumbled apologetically, sitting back further. He was quick to take his servos off of the multi-coloured Autobot, scared that he'd hurt him somehow. "M-maybe, maybe we should stop...I... I could t-take you home, o-or..."

"No, no," Tracks soothed, sitting up, one servo curling about the back of Blaster's helm. "No, it's alright. I would like to stay." He was smirking as he pulled the communications officer back, landing a chaste kiss on the stunned mech's mouth. "The movie's just begun, after all."

Colours flashed in the background and laughter chorused from the audience below the hill, as if to remind the two of where they were.

He almost wanted to purge when he saw the hopeful smile appear on Blaster's face. "O-of course!," the boombox beamed. "I... I'm glad you came Tracks. I'm sorry, again. I must have been rushing you too fast. I just... Oh, Primus, you're so beautiful and smart, a-and brave. I... I'd do anything you'd ask!"

The praise normally would have made the corvette glow with vanity. Instead, it left him feeling even hollower inside. He was hungry -in the terrible, lustful sense- and he longed to be smothered by another 'bot. Blaster seemed ideal... yet his companion's touch only turned him off. Why was that? Tracks had never been so turned about before; to find a mech handsome and long for his affections, but be repelled by his very touch.

Inside of him, something sneered.

Pushing aside his ill, the corvette tried to get in the mood again, missing the closeness he just had with the other Autobot. "Hold me?," he asked, smirking sultrily when one of Blaster's arms wrapped snugly around his waist. Maybe if he pushed through his nausea, tried to be patient and put up with the fool's silly romantic gestures, perhaps Tracks would then be able to stomach the red mech's servos on his plating for longer than two kliks. The possibility of a frag was too much to pass up.

"I love your company Tracks," Blaster confessed quietly, his cheekplates darkening as he met the other's optics. "I...I'm glad to be here with you. Anywhere, really. I want to make this work."

"So do I," the corvette returned, the lie slipping from his vocalizer easily. A gentle smile even graced his lip components.

He was swept up into the communications officer's arms, Blaster's face pressed against the side of his helm, allowing Tracks to frown freely at the stars above as his servos curled around the boombox's backstruts exasperatedly. No... the other's touch was too... _different_. He'd never be content with it.

But then who? Who's touch was it that lingered still in the recesses of his processor, haunting him?

Tracks shuttered his optics, oblivious to the creature snarling triumphantly as it circled around his spark tighter.

**xxXxXxx**

Everything was falling into place.

Soundwave sat at his terminal, in the privacy of his room, illuminated only by the light of the screen. Behind him, in the shadows that filled the rest of the space, his cassetticons slumbered; unaware of what their master was doing, and just as likely not caring. Which was fine with the communications officer as well. As long as his symbionts were not getting in his way, he would not comment or complain either way. At the moment, there wasn't much that the Decepticon really cared for... except what was displayed across the screens of his computer.

Reflected back to him under the glass, on the first monitor, was a series of scrolling numbers and icons. Stats, collected and streaming live from his parasite.

On the opposite screens either side of him, scenes flashed by -colourful, dim, sudden and some disjointed- a scattered and mute playback of his creation's current objective. The unraveling of Tracks' memories.

Soundwave tried not to get to excited as his helm turned to view the most recent stream of recollections. Without a direct up-link to the Autobot's processor, the video he received was without sound and usually lasted only a couple kliks at most, but each bit was wonderful in the blue mech's opinion. How many were privy to the slow and relentless cracking of another's firewalls; secrets and buried memories dragged up from the bottom of a processor that had partially forgotten such things even existed within their own archives? The continual, manipulative effort that tore and broke a 'bot down, until they were nothing more than the base of themselves -a shell, carrying only the wisp of their previous identity- perfect for remolding. Ideal for changing into something else; something better.

Yes, this -all of it. The parasite, Tracks' insanity, the scattered images from a processor slowly breaking down- all of this was beautiful. And it was all his alone.

This time, the communications officer allowed a cold chuckle to escape him, its tinny, haunting sound echoing for a moment in the room. The evidence of his recent triumph showed him how close he was to winning this battle entirely. Tracks' utter and honest surrender to him was so close, Soundwave could practically taste it. The very air was charged with anticipation.

When next they met, it would be a moment that Soundwave would relish for the vorns to come.

Not even Megatron's return -injured or not- would keep him from his victory.

The blue mech paused in his pre-victory musings, thinking further on his leader now that he had been reminded of him. He'd been on deck when Astrotrain had returned with the others. The damage on the shuttle's rear was pretty severe; the chunk of asteroid buried deep into Megatron's shoulder plating only seconded that opinion.

And all on a mission that had included no confrontations with Autobots...

At this very moment, the gun-former was down in medbay, awaiting repairs. Starscream had already "tended" to their leader shortly after arriving, but the damaged area would need a replacement altogether. The wound was too wide and deep for a simple welding. The combaticons were already working on getting the spare parts made. Of course, the job was placed on hold for the moment, as their air commander was busy spouting nonsense about Megatron actually starting to rust, and how this proved the default of his leadership, etc, etc, etc...

Obviously, no one really believed the seeker, but there was some concern among the troops. Hopefully their restlessness would be eased come the morning, when Hook did his evaluation and reported to Soundwave.

No, Megatron's health wasn't really the telepath's concern (the tyrant had pulled through worse before). What really had Soundwave's attention, and made him frown in remembrance, was the weapon that his lord had discovered and brought back with him. That lightning bug-heat ray monstrosity sitting in the lower levels of the ship, in a storage room not too far away from where Megatron currently resided. It was a powerful and awe-inspiring thing... it might of been even wonderful, if the communications officer didn't also see it as the threat it was to him.

If the tyrant decided to use the weapon on the Autobots (which he would, without a doubt, because this was war and Megatron enjoyed blasting their weaker opponents each time some weapon of mass destruction was put in his servos, with all the giddiness of a sparkling handed a new toy) then Soundwave would be at odds with his leader. He couldn't -wouldn't- allow Tracks to simply be melted to scrap metal. Not after he'd spent all this time, working, pushing, to get the corvette to bend to his will entirely.

Especially not when he was so close to winning, his prize being the beautiful mech he would have smothered beneath him shortly.

Ah, but he was being too hasty in his thoughts, the tapedeck knew. He was mulling over treason, while still plotting his true enemies' demise... how peculiar. Soundwave silently reached out, a finger stroking down his monitor as Tracks' face showed on the screen (a recollection from staring into his own mirror perhaps?), his intakes slow and calm as he continued his musings. He'd wait until morning and see what the verdict would be. Even if Megatron decided to go through with his plan and use the new weapon on the Autobots, it would take a couple orns at least before such a motion took place. Enough time, Soundwave believed, for the parasite to have completely corrupted Tracks' loyalties.

He would command the corvette to come to him when the time was necessary, and when his comrades were dead, the communications officer would show his beautiful handiwork to Megatron... after which, all proceeding according to plan, Tracks would spend the rest of his function, in the telepath's quarters, waiting and eager to please his master every orn.

Yes, acting out on irrational factors of desire and jealousy was foolish. His plan would only come to fruit if he remained patient and wise throughout its entirety... and Soundwave was anything if not diligent.

Easing back in his chair, the Decepticon rested his servos in his lap, continuing his constant surveillance over the various screens, each reflecting a different image. Anticipating when next he and Tracks were together.

**xxXxXxx**

_Sleep was a twisted, agonizing state of half-consciousness. It offered no escape, no reprieve._

_Gunfire rained from some place above. He choked, engines squealing, slamming back under a shredded piece of copper; using the poor thing as a shield as bullets ripped through the ground before him. His optics saw as some unfortunate 'bot was caught in the fire, their energon splashing up to the air -bright and fluorescent- before it spattered across the nearest rubble as the frame they ruptured from crashed to the ground._

_His servos clapped over his mouth in an attempt to mute his scream. Further away, another explosion rocked the city, one more piece of the horizon crumbling out of sight. Fear raced through his circuits, stressing his poor neural network, making him begin to freeze and lock up. He just wanted to sit there and rock, one servo over his mouth as he screamed, another half-covering his optics as he stared the apocalypse in its face and wept._

_A pathetic part of him wished it was yesterday, when the stars glittered above, unclouded by smoke and the vicious light of fire burning through the bowels of broken buildings. Where people chatting, the laughter of sparklings at play, the hum of active transport tubes had replaced the concussive boom of explosions, the pitter-patter of bullets cutting through the air and the shattering screams as another innocent soul met a gruesome end. Coolant pooled thickly, obscuring his vision and tracking through the grime and ash that covered his face as the tears streaked down his cheekplates._

_He wanted to shout, scream, for some sort of help, clemency, salvation..._

_But he had never been very religious before, and he doubt Primus would come save him now. It was apparent that the supposed deity could care less about his children if this is what he let become of them._

_The roar of jet engines shrieked through the towers above him, missiles being launched and colliding with their intended target with a clapping, ferocious sound. Yelping in terror, he hurried to find new cover as large chunks of steel began to plummet to the ground below. He barely missed being skewered by a particularly sharp projectile; the shrapnel skinning his plating, nicking the cabling of his calf. A pathetic, hoarse sound escaped him as agony seared across his sensory grid, as he fell to the ground, curling into himself while energon poured from his wound and the world fell about his helm._

_I'm going to die, he thought, gasping and bawling in a torturous mix of fear, horror and resignation. I don't want to die..._

_He felt, more than saw, the world flux and change around him._

_Slowly, nervously, he lifted his helm, peering at the destruction through half-shuttered optics. Everything was silent. There was no gunfire, no explosion, no boom of jet engines... As if colour had been sucked from the city, everything was dim and faded out; frozen even, as his glancing gaze noticed that even the bonfire closest to him did not flicker or sway in the same macabre fashion that it usually did. Gasping, he looked forward again as he took notice of the person standing before him suddenly._

_Deformed, the stranger stood, crooked and half-bent over, on one leg it seemed with its long, reedy arms almost reaching the ground and its squished head cocked at him. Black -sludge? Fluid? Smoke?- clung to the creature's frame, sticking to it thickly, giving the impression that the stranger was made up of the very stuff. Where it walked, the darkness followed; when it breathed, the shadows breathed along with it. The only sense of life coming from this beast of nothing was the vibrant, harrowing glow of its eyes -pale, burning lavender that flared or dimmed through the black, flat scape of the creature's face._

_The sight of such a being would normally terrify him, but there was no fear in him as he gazed upon the stranger. This... thing... was a friend. He knew that._

_How did he know that?_

"Come _," it hissed. Yet it had no mouth, nor did the sound come directly in front of him. No, it echoed through the air all around him; above, beneath, behind and from all sides. Never just in front. One of the black, thin limbs lifted. A stump extending into five points, becoming long, clawing fingers attached to a small palm. A hand that was now held out for him._

_Come?_

"Where there is one who can make all this... forgotten. _"_

_They can make it all go away?_

"He will not remind us. _"_

_He will not._

"He will reward us... _"_

_If we are obedient..._

"If we remain true... _"_

_Then we shall have nothing to fear..._

"Or think of again... _"_

_Or think..._

"Come _," his friend hissed again, thrusting his hand forwards again. "_ He awaits. _"_

_His servo raised, reaching for the creature's offered limb. The world trembled around him._

_Yes... Master waits._

_The stranger's eyes flared like imploding stars, and then the world was no more._

**xxXxXxx**

Blue optics onlined, burning fervently, piercing the darkness of his room. Slowly, gently, the corvette rose up in one fluid motion; staring from where he sat at the door on the other side of his quarters. His spark revolved coldly, sparing a single pulse, reminded of what lay on the outside, several miles away from him.

"Master calls...," the velvet vocalizer vented softly.

A small, serene smile pulled at rouge lip components.


End file.
